When you hang a warlock, you stick around to make sure he’s dead.
We hung the bastard at noon and sat three nights with the body in case he was playing opossum. We sat around the fire and told stories, keeping an eye on the corpse and occasionally poking it with a brand.
“Alright, fellas, let’s mosey,” I said on the third dawn. We doused the fire and packed our horses. The rest of the posse hit the trail, but I hid behind the hanging tree and waited. I was the only one who heard the corpse sigh in relief.

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