Lila, who ran the small, unadorned house on the edge of town, where the lamplight burned a little too late and the laughter was a little too loud. Lila, with her painted lips and eyes that had seen too much, but held a surprising kindness for the broken men who sought her out.
The mob gathered at dusk, fueled by cheap whiskey and cheaper morality. Farmers with calloused hands usually reserved for plow handles now clutched axes and pitchforks. Shopkeepers, whose ledgers balanced on the coins earned from men visiting Lila’s establishment, stood shoulder to shoulder with their wives, faces grim and set. Reverend Blackwood, his voice hoarse from sermonizing, stood at the front, clutching a worn Bible like a weapon.
They burst through Lila’s flimsy door with a splintering crash. The parlor, usually dim and welcoming, was suddenly bathed in the stark, accusing light of a dozen lanterns. Lila, sitting by a cold stove, sipping weak tea, didn't flinch. She watched them, her face devoid of surprise, only a weary resignation.
"Harlot!" someone roared. "Whore of Babylon!" another shrieked, a woman whose husband had just paid off his tab with Lila the day before.
Before she could speak, they were on her. They tore the simple calico dress from her body, leaving her in her chemise and corset, exposed and vulnerable. The air filled with the stench of boiling tar – thick, acrid, and terrifyingly hot. Two blacksmiths, their faces grim, held her down as a third, a man whose children Lila had once given sugar candy, slopped the viscous, reeking substance onto her skin. It burned, a horrifying searing heat that made her scream, a sound quickly swallowed by the mob's joyous roar.
Then came the feathers. Not the pristine white of church doves, but dirty, coarse feathers, likely plucked from the town chicken coop. They pressed them into the bubbling tar, coating her in a grotesque, black-and-white plumage. They stuck to her hair, her face, her raw skin, turning her into a monstrous parody of human form.
"Get the rail!" Reverend Blackwood boomed, his eyes gleaming with righteous fury.
A heavy fence rail, splintered and rough, was brought forth. They forced her astride it, her legs straddling the unforgiving wood, the tar and feathers already stiffening, grinding into her flesh with every slight movement. Four men lifted the rail, two at each end, their faces straining, but their resolve unwavering.
"Out of town, harlot!" they chanted, a ragged, rhythmic cry. "Out of Salvation’s Rest! Never return!"
The procession began. Lila, her head bowed, swaying precariously on her wooden perch, was carried through the main street. Children, wide-eyed and terrified, peered from behind their mothers’ skirts. Men who had known her kindness, or her services, averted their gaze, ashamed or afraid to meet her burning eyes. Every lurch of the rail sent a fresh wave of agony through her body, the raw wood grinding against her inner thighs, the tar pulling at her skin, the feathers mocking her plight.
The jeers and taunts followed her like a physical force. "Demon!" "Unclean!" "Filth!" She could feel the stares, the judgment, the collective weight of their condemnation. The smell of the tar was suffocating, the feathers tickled and scratched, but worse was the bitter taste of utter humiliation.
They passed the saloon where she'd heard so many lonely stories, the general store where she bought her meager supplies, the church whose bells now seemed to toll for her exile. Each landmark was a nail driven deeper into her coffin of public shame.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in colors too beautiful for such a wretched act. The town became a distant silhouette, its lights fading behind her. The jeers grew fainter, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of boots on the dusty road and the labored breathing of the men carrying her.
Finally, at the last mile marker, where the road turned into a faint trail leading into the barren expanse of the Nevada desert, they stopped. With a grunt, they dropped the rail, unceremoniously tumbling Lila to the dry, unforgiving earth. She landed with a choked cry, the impact jarring through her already shattered body.
"Stay out!" Reverend Blackwood’s voice cracked one last time in the twilight. "Or next time, it’ll be a noose!"
Then, they turned, a dark, receding mass, leaving her alone in the immense silence. The dust settled, the last echo of their satisfied footsteps faded.
Lila lay there, a grotesque, tarred and feathered silhouette against the dying light. The pain was immense, not just physical, but a deep, cold ache in her soul. She touched her face, feeling the harsh, sticky feathers. A single tear tracked a clean path down her cheek through the blackness.
