Still, she kept her finger near the trigger.

“Leave us alone,” she said.

Mr. Hands still did not move or give her any indication that he’d heard…or cared.

The wind came up again, blowing snow against her face. She blinked, stopped moving, and brushed her eyes clear.

Mr. Hands began to bend down toward her. For a crazy second, she thought he was falling, the movement was that stiff, but then she didn’t think about it any longer because she knew what it meant when he started to bend down toward a person (sixty seconds left to live, less if you were lucky), she had no choice, so she pumped off three shots from the Mossberg in rapid succession, straight into his gut, and that must have done something because he seemed to explode from the center as he closed the distance between them, falling toward her, and—

4

The place is called Hangman’s Tavern, one of the most legendary watering holes in the self-proclaimed “Land of Legend.” It’s located halfway between Cedar Hill and Buckeye Lake, but if you look for a clearly marked sign to guide you there, you’ll never find it; instead, you need to watch for the crossroad two miles after you get off the I-70 exit toward Buckeye Lake. Can’t miss it. If the weather’s bad and visibility is low, then keep an eye peeled for the eight-foot “T” post on the left, the one with the noose sculpted in iron dangling from it. The Ku Klux Klan used to bring their victims out here and hang them, then go on down the road for a few drinks. That’s how the business came by its name.

Grant McCullers, owner/bartender/sometimes short-order cook (who can play a mean harmonica despite a severely arthritic hand), is the latest—but hopefully not the last—of the men in his family to own the place; although Grant’s great-grandfather was Klan and built this tavern, the rest of Great-Grandpa’s male descendants decided not to pursue membership in that particular boys’ club. Not that it helps erase the shame of the family’s history, or make it any easier to forget that somewhere on the acreage surrounding the tavern there are still dozens—if not hundreds—of undiscovered bodies buried by the Klan during the heyday of their necktie parties.

While the Hangman’s history will never be fully forgotten (as well it shouldn’t be), Grant, like his father before him, has managed to remove much of the taint from the tavern’s reputation. The Hangman, you see, is the place to go if you’re looking for good company, decent food, homemade brew, and, most of all, stories: all the regulars who patronize the Hangman have one—consider it the unofficial cover charge. Some of these stories will break your heart; some will have you doubled over with laughter; some will leave you shaking your head in wonder; and some—a very exceptional few—will leave you feeling a bit more wary about what lies hidden in the night outside.

The interior is long and narrow, bar on the right, small round tables on the left, a comfortably scuffed polished-wood dance floor in between, with a stage set against the far wall and an ancient but superbly functioning jukebox off to the side (the selections lean heavily toward old blues standards). Gleaming brass horse rails brace the opposite wall and the bottom of the bar itself, while electric lanterns—anchored on thick wooden shelves just barely wide enough to hold them—keep an air of perpetual twilight inside, regardless of the time of day. The place smells of cigarettes, pipe tobacco, beer, hamburgers, and popcorn, all of the scents mixing with the lemon oil Grant uses to polish the bar. It smells somehow safe and welcoming, a perfect place to tell stories.