The Last Legal Hanging

by Mae Berry

  I stand and grab a shovel. “Come on Spud.” He follows me, slowly shifting off his bad hip. I walk out the door toward the back creek. There’s a stand of willows down a way that are real pretty. Real quiet, peaceful like. A nice spot.

  Bates

  March 11, 1876

  Kearney, Missouri

  I stand looking toward the willows down the creek way. I can just see their tops over the rise. The air is like thick, wet wool, enough to smother you. Sky has a green cast to it. Storms coming. The clouds are dark and undulating. Last night’s word, undulating. I’m like that. Rolling, growling, ready to burst. I clench and unclench my jaw trying to work out my mad. Pa and I been at it again. Something in me jist needs the last word. Contrary, I am just plain contrary. Twenty-six years old and he treats me like I’m ten.

  Ma stops beside me. Didn’t even hear her coming. She’s been real quiet like ever since Martha Ann got herself married. Ma never liked Edward Stone, Martha Ann’s new husband. He’s a good enough man. Just kinda shy. Steady like. Quiet. It surprised everyone that bubbly little Martha Ann, the belle of the county settled on Stone. Course that was after James P. Butterfield rode in and out of town. Martha Ann had seen a lot of him before he up and left. Sudden like. Now I think on it, Martha Ann is more quiet, too. Guess that happens after you get married.

  “Bates,” ma says laying a hand on my arm. “We need to talk.” I shrug her off. Don’t need her meddling. The niggle starts in my belly.

  “Nothin’ to say ma. Pa and me don’t get along. Like oil and water. Don’t mix.” I make a slashing motion.

  “There’s more to it Bates. Time you know. There’s something I’ve been keepin’ from you.” She stares off across the creek to the rise and beyond at the field of winter wheat just peeking up through the soil. I shift my feet and glance from the corner of my eye. She stares at the ground.

  “Not sure how to say this Bates, so I’m jist gonna spit it out. Yer pa and I were… together afore we married.” I frown at her, not sure what she’s getting at. Not sure what this has to do with me and pa. She stares off, a fierce blush crosses her face. She clears her throat, “He knew me Bates…” I stare at her, my frown deepening, “… in a Biblical way.” She snorts at my dumbness. I stiffen. Her lips drag down and she fiddles with the band of her apron.

  “It ate at me, Bates. I was in agony over it. I was convinced I was the blackest sinner who ever walked the face of the earth.” She turns looking up for the first time, a pleading in her eyes I ain’t never seen before. Ma’s always been strong, but distant. “After I found out I was… in a family way… with you, Bates. I was so convicted of my sin I was sure if I died, I’d be lost forever. Separated forever from God. Day after day I thought about it.” Agony etched her face. “Night after night I’d pace the floor. All these fears and doubts tormented me.” She pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes again. “I told your father, and we married; but it burdened my soul. I suffered so.” She shakes her head, wringing her hands. Her eyes stare at something I can’t see. Lightening bolts add to the niggles in my belly. Icy lightening bolts that feed the niggle into a roar.

  “I felt so afflicted the whole time I was carryin’ you,” she whispers. I shuffle my feet, not sure what direction to go, but needing to get away from here, from her somehow. I hear thunder rumble in the distance. She raises a hand toward me. “There’s more, Bates.” I shake my head, not sure I can take more right now. “Yer father, you see, he was… dissipated when we met. I found out later I wasn’t the only girl he…” She swallows again. “Anyhow. All that changed once he found the Lord. Before Lewis was born he turned around.” She nods her head firmly. “Been walking as a godly Christian man should ever since.” I stare at her, sure she sees the incredulity on my face. My new word, incredulity. Her lips thin and she has a determined set to her mouth. I’m not sure if she is trying to convince me or herself. She don’t meet my eyes, finally she lowers her voice and whispers, “Except when it comes to you. I don’t doubt he loves you Bates,” she hesitates, “deep down I have to believe he does. But… but I think you remind him of how he was. What happened between the two of us? How we got married. I’m sorry, I need to tell you this now but you’re a man growed.”

  “So,” my voice cracks and I clear my throat, “I truly am a bastard.” She flinches and makes a fluttering motion with her hands. Pity and shame flicker across her face. Remorse. I peer into her eyes and it hits me. Almost takes me to my knees, my father is not the only one who has problems with my birth, my existence. My mother does too. Ma crosses her arms and turns. She heads back into the house, quietly closing the screen door behind her. The wind picks up, skittering dead leaves across the bare space in front of the barn.

  I give a long exhale. The roar moves through me like a tornado. No wonder it’s as if the devil drives me. I am a man conceived in deepest darkest sin. I was brought into the world through torment and struggle. What chance do I have? God won’t listen to one so tainted. I am cut adrift. I am irredeemable. I can do nothing to change it. I take a deep breath. Nothing to change it. The sky casts a greenish tint and darkens. A sudden stillness comes over me. Nothing to change it. The roar inside quiets, settles. Irredeemable. Nothing I do or don’t do will change that. Nothing. Keeping rules won’t change it… not keeping rules won’t change it. The roar retreats to its small, hard shell. The corners of my lips tip up. I am… free.

  Chapter 9

  April 17, 1891

  West Bottoms, Missouri

  Sam pushed open the precinct’s heavy double doors far too early in the morning. She scowled, last night’s mysterious note clenched in her fist. It is imperative you stop by the West Bottoms Precinct at 6:30 a.m. Be prompt. Throwing the summons in the face of the imperious sot who sent it would help regain her equilibrium, but she had no idea who issued it. Most of the time her relationship with the police was one of mutual avoidance and frankly she was too tired to wonder. Mr. Arnold’s case required her to hold positions at two of his locations; the late evening shift at one and the be-there-at-six-thirty-am shift at the other. A shift she would miss. She yawned finding it difficult to care.

  Her footsteps echoed as she marched across the deserted lobby. Coffee. She smelled it, the rich full aroma. Her mouth watered. Morning was not her forte. The only bright spot, her only indulgence— coffee. Fresh, hot, a jolt to her constitution, coffee. This morning held a nasty surprise. Hattie, vexed no doubt, hadn’t bought coffee beans. So she stood here at the untenable time of 6:33 a.m. sleep and coffee deprived. Whoever had delivered the mandate would be a far wiser man after her visit.

  Sam reached the scarred banister separating the riffraff from the powerful desk clerk. It appeared Spotwood didn’t have duty this morning, thank heaven. She glared at the man behind the imposing desk. Simms. Wonderful. She sighed. The imbecilic twit of a man ignored her, blowing on his coffee. She cleared her throat. He pretended not to hear. He straightened and rearranged his papers. Sam coughed. Loudly. He raised a “wait” finger and placed two more papers on a stack. A flush crept up her neck as she clenched her fists, the note in her hand crumpling into a sweaty ball.

  “I am expected, Mr. Simms.” It was nearly enough to make her smile when his lowered head revealed a considerable bald spot. He continued shuffling papers. “Whoever is expecting me will not appreciate being kept waiting.” No response from Simms. She gritted her teeth. “Whoever is expecting me will appreciate it even less once they experience the results of keeping me waiting.”

  “Keep your pants on… a-,” Simms looked up and blushed from his scrawny neck to his receding hairline. Somewhat appeased, Sam took a deep breath. “Just a minute, Miss Lawton.” He waved another clerk over, “and for your information, it’s a marshal.” The reverence he placed on the word did little to explain or to placate Sam’s mood. She refrained from rolling her eyes. Barely.

  “What, exactly, is a marshal, Mr. Simms?” She cocked her head and fixed her glare on him. Simms looked puzzled w
hich could have been amusing, later in the morning. He squirmed in his seat then popped his neck. The sound rifled off the marble walls and Sam winced.

  “You know,” he said as he made a rolling motion with his hand, “the blokes that work the territories? Marshals?” He nodded. “The federals?” Sam rubbed her forehead. An intense pain built behind her eyes. Was this imbecile one of Kansas City’s finest?

  “I know what marshals are, I am asking what does a marshal have to do with me being summoned here? At this ungodly hour?” Her voice rose as she jutted out her chin. “Without coffee?” Simms sputtered. The other clerk hastily disappeared to the back. At that moment, a man entered the precinct door intently flipping pages in a file. Simms let out a huge sigh and raised his voice.

  “Lady to see you, sir.” His relief was comical. Well, it would be if she wasn’t coffee deprived. She looked expectantly at the tall stranger absorbed in his report. He stopped in the middle of the lobby and raised a finger in a wait gesture. Honestly? Again? At least the dolt could acknowledge her existence. He had interrupted her day. She glared at the clock on the wall, 7:02. Her jaw clenched. Someone would pay for this.

  The man closed the file with a sigh and walked in her direction. He was tall with a stocky build. She tapped her foot and examined his face. His mouth curved up in a polite I-intend-to-brush-you-off smile. His eyes, there was something about them. They were a deep spring green. Like new grass on a- He froze mid-step, his eyes widening. Sam tilted her head, a crease forming between her eyebrows. She stiffened. No! It couldn’t be! The man from the streetcar stop. The ruffian who knocked her flat then tried to charm her. Her eyes narrowed as she planted her fists on her hips. He snapped straight and continued toward her. His mouth now a grim line.

  As he approached, she spat out, “Are you responsible for this?”

  His jaw slacked and his eyes widened. “For what, madam?”

  She took a step forward. “For my summons?” He took a step back. “For my 6:30 a.m. summons?” She stalked toward him. “For my 6:30 a.m. summons with no coffee?” She stopped a pace from him and and crossed her arms. Her face burned, most likely an unbecoming shade of crimson. With blotches. It always blotched when she was, well furious! The man’s lips twitched, as if he were about to laugh. Sam vibrated. No holding back now. She stepped closer. Her low voice dropped an entire octave. “You. You summoned me, and you have the impertinence to stand there and laugh?”

  “Look, lass, I ‘aven’t gotta clue what you’re on about.” His forehead wrinkled in a frown as he pursed his lips. “I’ve got serious business to be on and if you’re needin’ something I’m sure Mr…” He flapped his hand in Simms’ direction, “would be more than ‘appy to ‘elp.” Just like last time. Despite what he seemed to think, his brogue was NOT a way to “charm the lassies.”

  “You. Summoned me. Here. This morning.” A finger jab and a step toward him punctuated each word. She stopped and tipped her head to glare in his too-green eyes. She jabbed into his chest. Hard. It hurt, but she held back a flinch. He was surprising solid for a buffoon. “You,” she growled again.

  The man took a deep breath and stepped back. “See here lassie, ah Miss… what is your name?”

  “Lawton. Sam Lawton.” The fire in her eyes could scorch his shirt. She was tired of being at the mercy of nitwits who ridiculed and-

  “Fine. Miss Lawton,” he said, his suffering tone grated on her ears. “I do not understand what—” He froze. Again! Did the man suffer from fits?

  Sam smirked at his look of panic. It was almost entertaining, but she was past finding humor in the morning’s exchange.

  “Wait, Lawton?” he sputtered. He looked as if his breakfast was threatening to reappear. “Sam Lawton? You are Sam Lawton?”

  Sam’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. Take that back, he’s not a nitwit, he’s an imbecile. His reaction was typical, and she was tired of it, so exceedingly tired. His expression shifted; he now resembled a landed fish, opening and closing its mouth.

  “Yes, I am reasonably certain of that fact.” Sam crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head.

  “But, you’re a woman!”

  “I am reasonably certain of that fact as well. Very astute of you, Mister?” She cocked an eyebrow then noticed the star pinned to his suit-coat lapel. “Ah,” Her voice took on a mocking tone. “I see. Was that brilliant deduction the result of years of careful observation in field work, Marshal, or was it something they teach you in training classes?”

  His eyes swept her from crown to toe. He took another step back, shaking his head. “I’m ‘feard there be a mistake, lass.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I am needin’ the help of a Samuel Lawton, who worked fer Pinkerton. That worked a police case a few years back. A case of a missin’ father? A family kilt in their sleep? A… a murder-suicide?”

  He shifted his shoulders and his careful diction returned. “So, I’m afeard… ah… I fear someone mixed you up with that man. I’m sorry to have troubled you. It has been… interesting meeting you.” He looked apologetic and relieved as he nodded his head and reached out a hand toward the door. Ready to escort her out.

  Sam closed her eyes. She could, couldn’t she? Just walk away right now? Pretend she wasn’t who he was looking for? There was only one Sam Lawton that worked law enforcement in Kansas City. Pinkerton had helped with only one case in the city of a missing father and murdered family. “Gittin,” she breathed.

  The Marshal’s polite smile froze, his hand extended toward the door. “Excuse me?” He lowered his arm and stared.

  “You are speaking about the Gittin case.” Her eyes remained closed. “It happened in Stanley, seven years ago?” She locked her wobbling knees and opened her eyes.

  “What’d you say?” he whispered as red rose up his neck and bloomed across his lightly freckled cheeks. Oh look, his face turned blotchy too. “How’d ye know that name?” He crumpled the folder to his chest. “You… you are Pinkerton Agent… Samuel Lawton?” His obstinate refusal to face the facts was getting irritating. Either that or he was unbelievably dull witted. Most likely the later.

  Sam nodded. “Yes, I am, or was.” Her anger drained. His response was typical. She sighed. “Actually, my name is Samantha Lawton, not Samuel.”

  “Did you… clerk the case? Keep the paperwork for the agent in charge?” He loosened his collar. His eyes flitting back and forth between hers.

  And so much for giving him benefit of the doubt. She let out a snort. “What are your concerns, Marshal?” The man needed to get control of himself or at least his mouth.

  “You can’t have been the agent. A female agent? A woman’s mind jist kain’t handle the complexities of investigation. You’d need to be skilled in…” His eyes widened and she could tell he frantically tried to shut off the thought, but his mouth out ran his brain and it slipped out, “...deductive reasoning.”

  Blind, white fury replaced her earlier irritation. “Actually, marshal, I happen to be very good at my job. The case you mentioned? I took the depositions. I was the one who followed up. I was the one who tried to see justice done. After your tirade, I say I have more ‘deductive reasoning’ in my little finger than you have in your entire body.” Sam waved a dismissive hand up and down his frame.

  He held a hand to stop her. His shoulders slumped. “I am sorry, lass… ah, Miss Lawton, you surprised me, and I spoke without thought,” he tried to appear contrite.

  “Speaking without thought,” she shook her head. “An admirable trait in a federal officer.” Sam straightened her shoulder bag. “Can we please get on with whatever it is you need?”

  He attempted a feeble smile. “If, you are Pinkerton Agent Sam Lawton, and you worked the Gittin case seven years ago… well then, lass, we need to talk.”

  Chapter 10

  Hours later, Finn rounded the corner onto Missouri Avenue toward the recently opened Jackson County Courthouse. The massive building, constructed from native stone, took up one city block and r
an from Oak to Locust then 5th to Missouri Avenue. It stood an imposing four stories with turrets on each corner. Topped by a slate roof, the building looked regal in the afternoon sunlight as he climbed the stone steps. Once inside, the marble floors and high ceilings echoed with muffled footsteps and hushed conversations in keeping with the solemn business conducted. Finn opened the door to the marshals office and headed toward his desk in the corner of the small common room. Each corner had a scarred desk with a mismatched chair crammed next to it. The battered furniture was at odds with the marble floors and mahogany paneled walls. The man in charge, Marshal Fenton, had been livid. He took the cast off furniture as a personal slight from the office in D.C. It didn’t matter to Finn, except for Fenton, none of them spent much time in the office so the furnishings were of little consequence.

  Finn eyed Fenton’s closed door as he removed his suit coat and draped it over his chair. He sat and opened the file on Gittin and arranged his papers. Miss Lawton was coming by later to discuss the case. The sooner he could get the information he needed from that she-cat, and send her on her way, the better. A Pinkerton agent, he snorted and shook his head. He was sure; she was a glorified clerk. A woman just didn’t have what it took to be a good investigator.

  He frowned at the notes before him. He didn’t have much. Richards had been an odd duck, but nothing to show he’d done anything more horrible than taken off with his son. Still, Father Seamus’ concerns left Finn uneasy and if Richards was Gittin… well, the records were comprised of a few pages of basic information. Incomplete information. Not a good start to an investigation. He rubbed the back of his neck, the prickling bothered him. Finn felt funny discussing it, but that prickling had saved his bacon more than once. He didn’t discount it lightly and right now? It had turned into a full on itch. He needed to find that boy.