by Al Lacy
Panic rose in Blake. He couldn’t let Linda come to Sacramento and then find out he was in prison. She must be told before she climbed aboard that train. “Marshal Adams, I need a few minutes to talk to my friend here.” He pointed to Haman with his jaw. “Please. I must send a wire to someone in the East. I’ll have him do it for me.”
“We have to get going,” said Adams.
“Five minutes? Would you grant me five minutes?”
Adams looked to his partner.
Jack Plummer shrugged. “Sure. Let’s give him five minutes.” “Thanks,” said Blake.
“But only five,” said Adams.
While the sheriff, the two federal men, and the pastor looked on, Blake and Haman moved into a corner out of earshot.
Keeping his voice low, Blake said, “Haman, I’m going to tell you about something I haven’t even shared with my pastor.”
Haman’s curiosity rose. “What is it?” he said in a low tone.
Blake quickly explained to Haman about Linda Forrest coming from Boston to become his mail order bride.
“She’s supposed to board the train in just a few days,” Blake said. “I need you to wire her immediately and explain what has happened. Tell her I’m innocent but I couldn’t prove it.”
Haman took a pencil from his shirt pocket and a small envelope from his suit coat pocket. “What’s her address?”
Blake told him Linda’s address and repeated it to make sure Haman had gotten it right, then said, “Tell her where the prison is, and ask her to write me. Explain that I won’t be able to respond for six months, but I want to know how she’s doing. Tell her I love her, Haman, with all my heart.”
Haman wondered how Blake could say that when he hadn’t even met her, but he said, “Will do, my friend.”
“Time’s up!” Roy Adams called. “Let’s go, Barrett.”
A crowd of people stood outside the courthouse and watched the two deputies escort Blake to a waiting horse. Pastor Clarke, Haman Warner, and Sheriff Perkins followed.
Blake was handcuffed before the marshals boosted him up into the saddle. As they rode away, he looked over his shoulder several times. The crowd called out to him, telling him they knew he was innocent. Tears filled Blake’s eyes as Pastor Clarke and Haman waved to him.
Brokenhearted, but trying to cling to Romans 8:28, Blake straightened in the saddle as Sacramento’s Main Street passed from view. When they reached the edge of town, the marshals put the horses to a gallop with Blake’s horse between them.
A few stars were twinkling in the sky overhead as the three men rode up to the gate of Ukiah prison. Blake gazed at the deeply shadowed, somber walls and said in his heart, Lord, how could a thing like this happen to me? What purpose could You have in letting me be locked up in this place for fifteen years? Help me, Lord. Help my faith not to waver.
The U.S. Marshals ushered Blake inside the prison and turned him over to Daryl Watkins, who was the chief guard on the night shift. They handed Watkins the papers on Blake that had been given to them by Sheriff Perkins, then bid Watkins good night.
Watkins sat Blake down in a small office, made records from the papers, then provided him with prison clothing. Blake’s stomach turned over at the thought of wearing the drab clothes marked Ukiah State Prison.
Watkins went over the prison rules and daily schedule with Blake and warned him to obey the rules at all times. He was told he would be put on a chain gang within a day or two, and it would be in his own best interest if he worked hard and gave the guards no trouble.
“Now, there’s one more rule here, Barrett. That’s the talking rule.”
Blake waited for him to proceed.
“The cells have solid walls between them. You will not be able to see the inmates on either side of you. The only way to talk to them is through the bars on your cell door. But don’t. There’s no talking between inmates except the one who shares your cell. It so happens that right now you won’t have a cell mate. Talking between inmates is allowed only at meals. When you go on the chain gang, you’re not allowed to say a word to anyone but the guards. Do you understand?”
“You’ve made it plain enough,” said Blake.
“All right, let’s get you to your cell.”
While they were walking through the cell blocks, Watkins said, “Sometime tomorrow, you’ll be brought to Warden Hall’s office. He always meets with each new inmate for a little discussion. He’s a very gruff man, and tougher than harness leather. Just smile and call him sir, and you’ll get through it all right.”
The next morning, just after breakfast, Blake was escorted to the warden’s office. Warden Clarence Hall was indeed as tough as Daryl Watkins had told him, if not tougher. He did not like convicts and was ready to discipline severely any man who got out of line. Blake remembered his “sirs” and did well with the warden, but he was glad when the discussion was over.
As the guard walked him back to his cell, Blake asked if he could have a Bible. They stopped off at a storeroom, and Blake carried his new Bible to the cell with him. He was told that he was now scheduled to go on the chain gang in four days.
For two days Blake spent most of his time praying and reading his Bible. In tears, he asked God why this horrible thing had to happen to him. He prayed for an increase in faith, asking the Lord to help him not to doubt His goodness or His Word. He also prayed for Linda, imploring God to take care of her and to guide her in the direction He would have her to go, now that Blake had been removed from her life.
On the afternoon of the third day, Blake was sitting on his cot reading his Bible when two guards appeared at the cell door with a prisoner between them.
“Got a cell mate for you, Barrett.”
“There you go, Huffman,” said one of the guards, giving him a gentle shove into the cell.
Before closing the door and locking it, the guard with the key said, “Barrett, you might try to get along with Huffman here. He’s in for murder. Gonna hang in exactly a week. You see, we don’t have a death row in this prison, so we have to put the condemned men in with those who are just doing time. Don’t irritate him. He might try to murder you, too.”
The door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.
Huffman stood at the bars, watching the guards walk down the corridor. When their footsteps had died out, he turned around to find his cell mate standing behind him. Blake put out his right hand and said with a smile, “I’m Blake Barrett.”
“Larry Huffman,” said the new inmate, meeting his grip. “How long you in for?”
“Fifteen years. I’ve only been here three days.”
“What’d you do?”
Blake sighed. “Why don’t we sit down?” He sat on his cot, and Larry eased onto his.
“I’ve been told,” said Blake, “that there are few guilty men in prison—according to them. They were framed, or the arresting lawman had it in for them.”
“Yeah. That’s what I hear,” said Huffman.
“Well, I really am innocent.”
Huffman looked at him intently, then said, “I’d like to hear your story.”
“Okay, but if you get bored at any spot, just say so, and I’ll shut up.”
“Shoot.”
When Blake had finished his story, Huffman said, “You know what, Blake? I believe you. There’s a clean-cut look about you, and there’s something in your eyes that tells me you didn’t steal that money.”
“Thanks. I wish the jury had been as kind as you.”
There was a silent moment, then Huffman said, “I know you’ve got to be curious about who I murdered and why.”
“Yes, but I really don’t have to know anything about it, Larry.”
“Might as well. You’ve got to live in this cell with me for a week. I’m not innocent, Blake. I planned very carefully to kill the man I murdered, and I did it as planned.”
“I see.” Blake’s features paled a bit.
“The man’s name was Melvin Packman. He was a burglar.”<
br />
Blake nodded.
“What happened … Packman broke into my widowed mother’s house one evening when she was visiting some neighbors down the street. He about had his bag full when she walked in and caught him in the act. When she tried to run, he grabbed her and strangled her to death.”
Blake’s features twisted. “Oh, how awful!”
“I won’t go into the details of it,” Huffman said, “but the law caught him. He was brought to trial. But—“Huffman choked up for a moment. “But he got off on a technicality. Because of some quirk in the circumstances of his arrest that came out in the trial, the judge declared a mistrial and set him free. That was more than I could take. I went after him to exact my own justice. And I did. I got my hands on him and strangled him to death, just like he did my poor mother.”
Blake pondered Huffman’s story and studied his face. “Are you glad now that you killed Packman?”
Larry scrubbed a palm across his mouth and said, “No. I didn’t feel the satisfaction I thought I would. And on top of that, killing him didn’t bring Mom back. And now they’re gonna hang me.”
“It wasn’t worth getting your own justice, was it?”
“No. And I’m scared, Blake. I’m scared to die. I’m afraid of what lies out there beyond my last breath.”
Forgetting his own heartaches and problems, Blake said, “Larry, do you believe this Book is the Word of God?” He picked up his Bible from a small table.
Larry had not noticed it before. He bit down on his lower lip and nodded. “Yes. I have no doubt about that. I know it says there’s a burning hell out there for murderers like Melvin Packman and … and Larry Huffman.”
“Yes, and for all other kinds of sinners who die in their sins. I can help you lose your fear of dying, Larry, if you’ll let me.”
An ecstatic Haman Warner walked out of the law offices of Laymon, Studdard, and Griswold. The briefcase in his hand held the papers that declared him owner of the Pacific Bank and Trust Company. He now had exactly what he had gone after. Blake Barrett was behind bars, and the will left by Bradley Barrett had made Haman Warner a millionaire.
The very same day, Haman moved into the Barrett house. He took over the master bedroom and closet, stuffing Blake’s clothes in a closet in a bedroom down the hall. One day, when he had time, he would burn Blake’s clothes.
He rearranged the furniture in the house to suit himself and went through cabinets, dressers, and chests of drawers to see if he could find anything of value. While he was pawing through a drawer that held some nice pieces of jewelry, he thought of Blake’s personal bank account. He had taken a look at the account that morning and found it quite sizable. He was trying to figure a way to get that money in his own hands but couldn’t come up with a surefire plan. He would think on it some more.
The next day after work, he went through more drawers in search of valuables he could sell for cash. “Funny,” he told himself, “no matter how much money a man gets his hands on, he always wants more.”
He decided to spend the rest of the evening in the library and lit a couple of lamps. He had never done a lot of reading, but the hundreds of books on the shelves suddenly seemed interesting. He was about to look for a book to read when his eyes fell on Blake’s desk at one end of the room. More drawers to go through!
Setting a lamp on the desk, he pulled open the top drawer. There were letters under a metal clip addressed to Blake from Linda Forrest.
“Ah, yes!” he said aloud. “Linda Forrest. I really should get around to sending her that wire.”
Haman took out the letters and began reading them. When he got to the envelope that contained the letter with her photograph, his eyes widened. “Oh, Linda!” he gasped. “You are so beautiful!”
He braced her picture in a standing position against a couple of thick books and gazed at it, captivated by her beauty.
“Oh, Linda,” he said in a whisper, “I wish there was some way I could have you for myself.”
He thought about the wire he’d promised Blake he would send. If only there were some way he could pose as Blake and make her his mail order bride. But how? If Blake had a picture of Linda, certainly Linda had a picture of Blake.
He read the letter that had contained the picture, then opened and read the next letter. He was surprised to find her saying that she’d never received his photograph. This stirred him to keep reading. He was able to pick up that Blake had Linda believing he was only a bank employee. He had not revealed to her that he was the owner of the bank. Probably wanted to surprise her in person that she was marrying a millionaire.
Linda’s final letter caused Haman’s heart to quicken pace when he read the date of her departure from Boston and the arrival date in Sacramento. She was due to arrive on Saturday, January 19—only a little more than a week from now! He smiled when he read her words:
“Blake, if you’re not able to get a picture taken and in my hands before my scheduled time to leave Boston for Sacramento, it’s all right. Though you’ve never described yourself to me, I have you pictured in my mind. I’m sure I will know you when I step off the train at the depot.”
Haman could hardly sleep that night for thinking of the beautiful woman in the photograph. How proud he would be to show her off as his wife!
He began working out a scheme to pose as Blake Barrett. The first obstacle was if Blake had been able to get a picture taken of himself and sent to Linda. If so, no scheming in the world could pull it off. If not, there had to be a way. But how could he know for sure? Send a wire and ask if she’d gotten it? But that would be to downplay her own romantic words about already picturing him in her mind.
No. She might catch on that something was wrong. Haman would simply go ahead and send the wire as Blake had asked him to. Tomorrow … or the day after that.
The next day, Haman stopped at the post office after work to pick up his mail. Since the postal people knew about Blake being in prison, they might let him have Blake’s mail. He would try it. Who knew what he might find?
The postal people were cooperative, telling Haman how nice he was to look after Blake Barrett’s affairs. When Haman went through the mail, he was delighted to find another letter from Linda. He couldn’t wait to get home to read it. He scurried to a corner of the post office and tore it open.
It was dated January 11, 1878:
My dear Blake,
This is the last letter I will write. Our next contact will be when we meet in person at the Sacramento depot on Saturday, January 19!
And let me say again—it’s all right that you were not able to get a photograph taken and sent to me. It’s more exciting this way! I’m sure I will know you when I see you. I will just look for the handsomest twenty-seven-year-old man in the depot!
With great expectancy,
Linda
Haman could hardly contain himself. His idea was not impossible, after all! He could impersonate Blake, even to the point of talking and acting like a Christian. Blake had talked to him on numerous occasions about being saved, and Haman had been around other Christians enough to know their jargon. He was sure he could pull it off.
He read the brief letter again, then said to himself, “There’s still one big problem, Haman, ol’ boy. You can’t impersonate Blake in Sacramento. You’ll have to get clear out of California. Go somewhere else, somewhere you’re not known.”
He snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute! That bank in Wyoming!”
Haman had learned just the previous day that there was a bank for sale in Cheyenne City, Wyoming. The owner had died, and his widow had put it up for sale.
As he thought about it, Haman knew several bank owners in California who would love to purchase the successful Pacific Bank and Trust Company of Sacramento. He would sell it to the highest bidder.
The next morning, Haman told the bank employees that he would have to be away from the bank possibly all day, then he drove his buggy to the town of Stockton, where he was unknown. There he entered th
e Western Union office and wired the widow in Cheyenne City, using Blake Barrett’s name, to see if the bank was still on the market, and to ask how much she wanted for it. The return wire came back in less than an hour, saying the bank was still for sale, and the widow named her price.
Haman was happy to learn that the price was less than he would get out of the Pacific Bank and Trust Company. He wired the widow a firm offer for the price she was asking. Within another hour, the deal was agreed upon.
Haman then wired Linda—as Blake Barrett—telling her some changes were taking place in his career. He would be moving to Cheyenne City, Wyoming, to work in a bank there. He was sending the wire from Stockton because he was on an assignment from the Pacific Bank and Trust Company and needed to send it right away. She must wait in Boston until she heard from him in Wyoming, which would be a few weeks. He asked for her to send a return wire by the messenger who delivered the telegram to her door. He would wait in Stockton till he heard back that she had received it.
Linda Forrest was in her room, making final preparations for her trip in two days, when she heard a knock at the front door. She could hear her mother’s footsteps and a male voice saying something Linda could not make out. Then came her mothers voice: “Linda! You have a telegram here from Blake!”
She rushed to the front door and saw a tall, skinny messenger in a Western Union uniform.
As she drew up, Adrienne said, “Honey, this man needs you to read the telegram right now, because he has a note from the telegrapher that an immediate reply is needed.”
“All right.” Linda’s eyes were dancing as she took the paper and read it.
“So what is it, Linda?” Adrienne asked.
“Blake says he’s changing jobs. He’s leaving the bank in Sacramento and taking a job in a bank in Cheyenne City, Wyoming. He wants to know I’ve received this telegram, and I’m to wait a few weeks until I hear from him.”
“He must be bettering himself by this job change.”