The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  “They aren’t lies, Miss Hester.” Clay picked up a stack of folded newspapers he’d placed on the desk earlier. “He’s killed enough times and in such horrific fashion that the newspapers have taken to calling him the Nebraska Butcher or the Nebraska Fiend. Look for yourself.” He handed the stack to her then lit the lamp on the corner of Papa’s desk.

  Hester sat again and looked at the first article then another. When she reached the third, she slid the stack back onto the desk with a shaking hand, the rest unread.

  Emma crouched in front of her. “Do you believe us?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. This is all so fantastical, it seems like a work of fiction.”

  She cupped Hester’s hands in her own. “I know. It took me a long time to see it myself, and even after I did, I ran off to Nebraska to find him.”

  “Miss Hester, this is a lot to take in, and we don’t tell you these things just to upset you. When I found out he was writing to you, the man who said so mentioned Stephen might be returning for the Christmas dance tomorrow night. Is that true?”

  “I asked him to come, but he hasn’t answered me.”

  “So you don’t know if he’s here—or whether he’s plannin’ to be?”

  “No.” She darted a frightened look between them. “Am I in danger?”

  “Not if I can help it, but if he shows up, please don’t go with him.”

  December 20, 1877

  Dusk had fallen, but Mount Pleasant’s streets were busy and active with young people headed toward the Christmas dance. Clay watched the main street from a shadowy spot with a good view of the front of the building. Scattered in strategic spots around the town, PJ, Steubenville police chief Jim Petry, and a few of his officers also kept watch. If Stephen Richards was bold enough to return to Mount Pleasant, they were ready.

  Thank God, both Hester and Emma had promised they’d stay far from the dance—safe in their own homes. At the Draycotts’, he’d asked Wilt Parcell to keep his eyes open—and a gun handy—just in case Stephen showed up.

  Clay huddled deeper into his coat and watched. For thirty minutes, wagons arrived and parked along the streets, making it hard to keep a line of sight to the other officers. Several groups arrived together and, spilling out of their wagons and buggies, converged on the street. He rose slightly, scanning faces and bodies in an attempt to see if Stephen slipped in among them. It was near impossible in the dark, despite the rising full moon. Hopefully, the officer stationed on the inside of the hall was keeping a close watch.

  Once the initial flood of dance-goers arrived, the streets quieted, and not long afterward, music and the muted din of laughter and voices wafted out.

  Father, show me where Stephen is. Is he even here tonight?

  Another uneventful few minutes ticked by, and Clay stood to stretch. Now that the bulk of the attendees seemed to have arrived, he’d make a quick circle around the inside, just to assure himself Stephen hadn’t slipped through, then resume his watch over the street. As he stepped out, running footsteps pounded up the street.

  “Clay!” Hester’s voice rang through the street, frantic. “There you are!”

  Every fiber instantly primed, he swung to his right to find her hurrying his way.

  He caught her by the arms. “Thought I told you to stay inside, no matter what.”

  “I think my sister might be at the dance.” Her eyes were huge in the light of the full moon.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was upset my parents wouldn’t let her attend tonight, so my mother consented for her to stay with a friend who lives at the edge of town.” Hester pointed west.

  “What makes you think she’s not at the friend’s house?”

  “The dress she planned to wear to the dance is gone! I think she took it, intending they’d sneak out.”

  What in blue blazes was it with Mount Pleasant girls sneaking away? Was it somethin’ in the water?

  “Tell me where this house is.”

  “This way.” Hester broke free of his grasp and took off, charging down the main street, passing darkened storefronts and the occasional people walking the street. His heart hammering, Clay darted after her.

  At the edge of town, he caught up and grabbed her elbow. “I said tell me,” he growled. “Not show me!”

  “It’s a block up from the field. We’re almost there.” She motioned across a large grassy area dotted with several couples in fancy duds walking toward town.

  When she attempted to run again, Clay held her fast. “Hester, stay!”

  From somewhere behind, PJ came up. “Everything all right?”

  “No!” Hester tried to free herself, though Clay held firm.

  “Hester’s sister might try to sneak away from a friend’s house to go to the dance.”

  “See? There they are.” The young woman flung a hand at a pair of girls cutting through the field. “Janie! Laurel!”

  Clay traced Hester’s line of sight to the pair, who stopped short at her call. Perhaps ten feet behind them, a tall man also paused to look in Hester’s direction. The fella, sporting short, dark hair and a mustache, waved.

  “Hester!” he hollered out, then appeared to shift his attention to the two girls near him, calling out to them as well.

  In the same instant, recognition struck. Richards!

  “PJ!”

  “I got him,” he called, already darting into the shadows in an attempt to flank Stephen.

  Clay gave Hester a push toward the other end of town. “Go home, Hester. Now. Quickly!”

  She stumbled off a few feet, and when Clay returned his focus to Janie and her friend, Stephen had stepped up between them, arms circling the girls’ shoulders. Tension gripped Clay, and he grasped the old 1849 Colt Pocket Pistol he carried when he traveled. Drawing it from his belt, he held it beside his leg.

  “Richards?” He advanced slowly, praying it would be enough time for PJ to get in position. “Let the girls go, and let’s talk.” As he neared the closest couple walking in the field, he hissed for them to get down.

  Wide-eyed, the pair looked around, and the man tugged his gal away, running for the nearest building.

  “I don’t really think you want to talk, do you, cowboy?”

  “That’s all gonna depend on you. Let them go.”

  Richards drew the girls nearer, and their eyes rounded.

  A shadow darted to his left. PJ.

  “Stephen, you really don’t want to do this, do you? These are your friends. You know them.”

  He cocked his head to one side, a smug grin flitting across his lips. “I knew Mary too. She was a friend.” His right hand disappeared from one of the girls’ shoulders and inched toward his coat pocket. “Read a news article that said you’re the one who found ’em. At least I think it was you. It said a federal agent.”

  His stomach knotted at the man’s arrogance. There was no attempt to hide what he’d done. He was proud of himself.

  At PJ’s approach, as well as of one of Petry’s men from the right, Clay nodded. “I did. And you’re done. Let the girls go.”

  For one tense moment, Stephen’s hand hovered near his pocket and his eyes darted around the field. Upon noticing PJ, he returned his right hand to the girl’s shoulder and gave each of them a nudge.

  “Go on, ladies. Please pardon me for this unexpected interruption.”

  Both girls ran then, bolting past him, and Clay brought the gun to bear. As PJ and the other officer closed in, Stephen lifted his hands and smiled placidly.

  Clay reached him first. He checked his pockets and relieved him of the pistol he found in his coat pocket. “Stephen Dee Richards, you are under arrest for the murders of Peter Anderson, Mary Harlson, the three Harlson children, and various other crimes.”

  Epilogue

  Lowell, Nebraska

  April 26, 1878

  I don’t have a good feeling about this.” Clay shot a concerned look at the standing planks separating the pen where they waited fr
om the raucous crowd beyond. The boards rocked and creaked under the pressure they endured. “I think we need to go back to the hotel.”

  Despite her pounding heart and jittering nerves, Emma turned pleading eyes his way. “That’s not what we agreed. Besides, did you see the size of the crowd? I’m not even sure we could reach the hotel.”

  “I know it’s not what we agreed, darlin’, but I see the way they’re pushin’ on that barrier there. It’s my job to protect you, but how can I against such a mob?” Again, he glanced to the wall of planks as they swayed under the pressure exerted from the other side. “Do you know what your pa will do to me if anything happens to you?”

  Surely, Mama and Papa would be mortified to know where she was, whether anything happened or not. She’d never attended a hanging. Nothing in her upbringing would have allowed for it. But then, nothing in her upbringing would’ve allowed for her to be the wife of a multiple murderer either, and she’d nearly become that.

  A mighty crack split the air, and one of the planks toppled and smacked the ground only feet from them. Emma shrieked, and Clay drew her to him, folding his body around her. A raucous cheer rose, and more planks followed. As the barrier came down, people flooded in, bumping and jostling in their eagerness to get close to the gallows. More than once, the two of them were shoved forward several feet, and her husband grunted in pain more times than she cared to count. Yet he shielded her like a protective cocoon, not allowing anything to touch her.

  Lord, help. Protect us and calm the crowd, please!

  Once the empty space was filled and the jostling stopped, Clay straightened, panting. He kept his arms tight around her. She turned to face him, laying her hands on his chest. His heart pounded so hard, she could feel it through his shirt. Her heart matched his.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He looked across the frenzied throng and shook his head. “A bit bruised, but no. Are you?”

  “No.” Thanks to him. How had he withstood the crush of bodies to protect her? If he’d lost his balance and gone down, they both would’ve been trampled.

  He sighed. “Don’t reckon we’re going anywhere now, so … I hope you’re ready, darlin’. This won’t be pretty.”

  She laid her cheek against him. No, it wouldn’t be. But both the prison warden and the preacher attending to Stephen had written, saying he’d specifically requested she attend. Clay had argued repeatedly that she didn’t owe Stephen a thing, that he didn’t want her anywhere near where Stephen might inflict more pain and turmoil. Yet something had pulled at her to be here. Only God knew why—she had no desire to see the man she once thought she loved hang. But after much prayer, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling she needed to attend. When she’d asked one more time, Clay relented—said he’d also prayed and thought he should bring her.

  As a murmur rippled through the crowd, dread knotted her stomach. Emma faced the gallows as Stephen and two others climbed the ladder. The chaotic din grew worse until one of them held up his hands for silence.

  An unnatural quiet fell, starting at the nearest edge of the crowd and rippling through the thousands in attendance.

  “We are gathered today to put to death the self-professed killer of nine people, Stephen Dee Richards,” the man to Stephen’s right boomed. His voice echoed in the stillness above the crowd. “Richards was convicted on one charge—for the murder of Peter Anderson. It is for this crime he will now be hung. Please hear the reading of the death warrant.”

  The other man stepped forward and read from a stark white paper, detailing the murder of Anderson, the trial and outcome, and pronounced that Stephen should be hung by the neck until dead.

  Emma twisted toward Clay, and he inclined his ear. “Why is he only being hung for that crime? He confessed to so many others.”

  “He can only get his neck stretched once, Em, and that was the strongest case. We found the letters you’d written him in Anderson’s house. That was enough to convince a jury he’d been there and committed the crime.”

  “Mr. Richards, do you have any final words?” the first man asked.

  Stephen shuffled forward. Bound at the wrists, he lifted both hands to push the curly mop back from his face, then shielded his eyes as he scanned the crowd. Emma sucked a sharp breath when he seemed to focus straight on her before looking elsewhere again.

  Clay’s arms tightened around her. “You don’t have to watch this, Em. Don’t let him into your head. A man like him thrives on that.”

  She nodded but didn’t turn away. That decision might drive her husband mad with worry—she could almost feel Clay’s anger each time Stephen glanced her way. But she wanted to be alert for God’s purpose in having her come.

  “I stand here a victim of law. You have your opinion, I mine. I was found guilty of murder in the first degree. Condemned men don’t consider a sentence just. Peter Anderson accused me of poisoning him, since he’d fallen ill after I came to stay with him. I did no such thing, and we fought over the accusation. When he came at me with an ax, I defended myself. It is that simple.”

  His mouth twitched in disgust, but the look softened as his gaze came back to her. When Stephen spoke again, he spoke as if they were the only two there. “Someone once wrote something to me. A Bible verse. ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.’ I saved that paper—the only one I didn’t lose or burn. In these last weeks, I’ve pondered that verse and, because of it, have made my peace with God. I am going to a better world. I would sooner leave this one than not, knowing what has been said about it.”

  A surprised murmur rippled through the massive crowd. Hope and doubt warred in Emma’s chest. She’d prayed for this, encouraged Hester, Clay, PJ, Zeb, and Lula—even Dolly, whom she’d befriended—to beseech God on Stephen’s behalf. But the things he had done were so horrific.

  Lord, is this why You brought me here? Does he speak the truth? Have You answered our prayers, or is this just another lie?

  Once more, Stephen focused on the wider crowd. “I hope to see you all in heaven and shall expect to meet many there who are now traveling the narrow way. I hope to see you all where crime never comes.”

  He stepped back.

  “Reverend Gee will now offer a prayer for the condemned,” the man to Stephen’s right called.

  The man of God took the stairs and, at the corner of the scaffold, bowed his head. His prayer was brief, thanking God for His blessings and asking mercy for Stephen in these final moments. At his amen, Stephen motioned to the preacher and handed him what looked to be a scrap of paper.

  Reverend Gee stared at it a moment, then looked across the crowd. “Mr. Richards has a request. He would like to hear the words of a hymn that has proven meaningful to him of late. They are: ‘Take the name of Jesus with you, child of sorrow and of woe. It will joy and comfort give you; take it, then, where’er you go.’ ”

  Hearing the familiar words they’d raised in worship so many times, Emma felt the urgent need to sing. Her voice shaking as tears slipped down her cheeks, the words boiled out of her, timorous at first. Without hesitation, Clay added his soothing baritone, and her own voice strengthened. Soon others joined in.

  Precious name, O how sweet!

  Hope of earth and joy of heav’n!

  Precious name, O how sweet!

  Hope of earth and joy of heav’n!

  Take the name of Jesus ever,

  As a shield from ev’ry snare.

  If temptations round you gather,

  Breathe that holy name in prayer.

  Precious name, O how sweet!

  Hope of earth and joy of heav’n!

  Precious name, O how sweet!

  Hope of earth and joy of heav’n!

  At the name of Jesus bowing,

  Falling prostrate at His feet,

  King of Kings in heav’n we’ll crown Him

  When our journey is complete.

  Precious name, O how sweet!

  Hope of earth and joy of heav’n!


  Precious name, O how sweet!

  Hope of earth and joy of heav’n!

  By the time they reached the final chorus, it sounded as if the angels themselves had come to earth and filled the place with heaven’s praise. With the last note still ringing, Stephen nodded faintly in her direction and was walked to the center of the scaffold. As the men placed a black hood over his head, she closed her eyes and faced Clay. He drew her in tighter, and burying her face in his chest, she clung to him, fighting to hold back a sob.

  Interminably long minutes ticked, and finally, a voice rang out. “Stephen Richards, may God have mercy on your soul.”

  The sound of the trapdoor echoed, and she sagged in Clay’s arms, sobbing.

  “Do you suppose what he said was real, about making his peace with God?”

  Propped up on their bed in the hotel, Clay held Emma close. After the hanging, she’d wept for over an hour, fallen into an exhausted sleep, and woke again, teary-eyed though not as distraught. He hoped it was the last time she’d shed a tear because of Stephen Dee Richards.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely you have a guess.”

  He stared at the wall opposite them. “Part of me hopes he was tellin’ the truth, that God has welcomed him home—because if God can forgive and receive the likes of him, there’s incredible hope for all of us. But there’s that other side of me that struggles to comprehend how God could possibly welcome a man who did what I saw in that soddy. The nights I wake up with nightmares, relivin’ what I saw, I find myself wantin’ to curse him to hell for all eternity. And then I’m just ashamed of myself for thinkin’ such things.”

  “I’ve prayed for Stephen regularly since he and I became engaged—and especially so after I discovered what he truly was. But when I think about all the lies he told … about you being shot, and him almost kidnapping me, I struggle. I wonder whether he was too far gone for even God to reach.”

  “Is anyone ever out of God’s reach? Psalm 139 says that if we ascend to heaven, He is there, or make our bed in Sheol, He is there. Even in the uttermost parts of the sea, His hand shall lead us.”