The Last Legal Hanging

by Mae Berry

  “Bates, your mama,” she gets out before she bursts into sobs.

  “What happened now?” I try to say it gently. Truly I do. But Opal is sensitive. Years of livin’ with her pa has left her afraid of folks being angry with her. She especially can’t take it if she thinks I’m mad. But right now, I’m still hot with pa. She stops dead in her tracks. Her lips forming a round “o”. Seen this before. “Opal, not now. Go back to our room. Now.” I raise my eyebrow and give her the I-am-master-of-this-family look and she turns, scurrying back to the house hiccupping on her sobs. I look up at ma. Her eyes meet mine, her lips in a thin line. She slowly shakes her head as Opal, head down, shuffles around her into the house.

  “You are gonna have to handle this, Bates. Kain’t go on as it is,” ma says then turns and disappears into the semi-darkness of the kitchen.

  I flap out my shirt and pull it over my head. “Oh, don’t worry ma, I intend to.” Soon, yes indeed, I intend to handle it.

  Bates

  May 23, 1879

  Kearney, MO

  I dodge around the last tree and stop to catch my breath. Won’t do to appear at the meeting winded. Big gulps in, slow blows out. I smooth my hair, adjust my hat, and tug my suit coat back into place. The schoolhouse backs up to a swollen creek. The gurgling water rushes with the same intensity as my pounding heart. Spring rains have left the ground spongy and smelling of new earth. The building in front of me is the pride of the community. Built three years ago of river rock, it boasts a copula with a shiny brass bell. Not one, but two school rooms. It says Kearney is a big town. It says Kearney can afford two teachers. I’m proud of my town. I open the gate and enter the schoolyard as the Irvings pull up in their buggy.

  “Evenin’ Bates.” Mr. Irving sets the brake and the buggy lurches. He doesn’t approve of me, like most of the town, I can see it in his eyes. I give no sign I know what he is thinking, just like I pretend every time something shows up missin’ I don’t hear folks whisper I took it. I smile at him. Things are ready to change. For me.

  “Mr. Irving, Miz Irving.” I tug on the front of my bowler. A warm May breeze blows Mrs. Irving’s black skirt as her husband helps her from the buggy.

  “Wonderful solo you did in church last Sunday, Bates. Your voice is inspiring,” says Mrs. Irving.

  I nod at her, a smile on my face.

  “How is dear Opal?” she asks adjusting her bonnet bow, “I wish you could convince her to join us at these literary meetings. It would be nice for more ladies to come. She could get to know the other wives.” My smile falls. The old biddy isn’t trying to be friendly. Just wants to gawk at the woman married to the ex-con.

  “Thank you kindly, Miz Irving. Opal is a homebody. Bit on the shy side. Soon as the baby comes, she’ll be busy enough.” I nod politely.

  “Nonsense. She should try.” Find your gossip somewhere else old woman.

  “Now, come along dear,” says Mr. Irving, “Let poor Bates handle his own affairs.”

  I puff out my chest and give Mr. Irving a nod of appreciation. I am handling my affairs just fine. As we enter the schoolhouse, I notice my sister Martha Ann sitting with the women. I give her a nod, not making eye contact. I make my way over to an empty spot. A hand claps on my shoulder and I jump.

  “Whoa, Bates, a little jittery tonight?” says Elias Phelps. He is five years younger than I, and I don’t take kindly to his familiarity. A younger man should respect his elders. He is too casual for my liking. Besides, I try to keep a distance between myself and the Phelps family. I can not forgive Mr. Phelps for pressing charges and starting my troubles.

  “I’m fine, Elias. Just fine. Thank you for asking.” I shake off his hand and slide onto a bench full of folks. He stands there a moment looking at me, then shrugs and joins his friends. I remove my bowler and smooth back my hair. The man next to me nods his head and I nod back. Mr. Sutton steps up to the teacher’s platform with a copy of Othello in his hands.

  “Let us start the meeting with a word of prayer,” he says, lowering his head. We reverently bow. Good word, reverently. How a man treats his God, how a woman treats her man, how a child treats his parents. Reverent. Respectful.

  The meeting goes well enough. The discussion is stimulating. I make several insightful comments that have other folks nodding their heads at my acumen. Another good word. I will complete my college education on my own, thank you very much. I am not the dullard my father thinks I am, not that it matters what he… thought. As we are concluding the evening’s conversations, the door to the schoolhouse bangs open. Martha Ann’s husband, Edward stands in the doorway. His eyes wild.

  “Martha Ann! Bates! Come quick! Your pa’s been shot!” After a moment of frozen silence, the entire room erupts. Edward is gesturing frantically. A quick look at Martha Ann shows her standing, eyes huge, hands over her mouth. I hurry for the door pushing others from my path.

  “Quick, take my horse and get the doc, I’ll take Martha Ann in the buggy to your folks,” Edward says gesturing towards his nag. I nod.

  “Oh, Bates, here, take my gun,” Edward hands me his colt.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I move to push past him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he shoves the pistol at me, “we don’t know who’s out there shootin’ up folks.”

  “I said I’ll be fine.” I push him out of my way and walk to the horse.

  “Ya need to hurry Bates, he’s bad off.” I nod my head and mount. I dig my heels into the horse to put an end to the discussion. I take off at a gallop and round the first bend. As the schoolhouse disappears from sight, I drop back to a trot. No sense in killing the horse. Won’t make much difference when the doctor gets to the house. There is nothing he can do.

  Kearney Courier

  May 27, 1879

  Murder Most Foul!

  Hiram L. Gittin was murdered by an assassin at the age of fifty. This kind-hearted Christian man, a pillar of manly restraint and virtue was out in his barnyard feeding stock at nightfall and was shot down in cold blood. This foul deed has rocked the community and begs the question, does a fiendish villain still walk among us? Local law enforcement as well as the immediate family are diligently seeking this heartless demon.

  Bates

  January 3, 1882

  Kearney, MO

  “Oh Bates, any news concerning poor, dear Lewis?” asks Mrs. Collier. She’s like a fat cat sitting in front of a bowl of fresh cream. Her beady eyes fix on me. I reach for the can of beeswax.

  “Thank you kindly for asking, Mrs. Collier. Not sure. Haven’t heard from anyone since yesterday. Ma said his fever was terrible high, and it worries the doctor. Said Lewis was suffering mightily.” I rub the polish cloth over the wax then apply it to the counter rubbing slow circles. It is soothing, making something out of sorts right again. I finish and place the wax under the counter.

  Mrs. Collier clucks her tongue, “Poor dear.” I take down the vials behind me and carefully polish each one. It is amazing how dusty they get. Mrs. Collier clucks her tongue. The old bat is looking for the latest gossip to spread and my “poor brother” is the juiciest tidbit in town. Visiting for a short time during the holidays with his wife, leave it to Lewis to go and get sick and become the center of attention. Again. For the entire town. The golden boy. I wrestle my thoughts back to Mrs. Collier. She is looking at me. What did she say?

  “Yes ma’am,” I respond hoping it fits whatever she asked. “I’m planning to go visit him as soon as I get off work today.” Truth be told doc said Lewis would be fine. Just a cold. Leave it to ma to overreact. Still, I can’t stand the thought of Lewis suffering. He’s always been sickly, this could take a turn to something worse. It is a miracle he’s lived as long as he has. Working with students at the University in Liberty takes a toll. Long hours hunched over books. All those student bodies crammed into small lecture rooms. Lewis can’t survive those conditions forever. I jerk my attention back to Mrs. Collier.

  “—just a shame to have his visit
end with this. Has the doctor been to see him? Does he have the influenza?” Her face has a calculating look as if she’s digging for each juicy bit. She is enjoying this. Someone else’s pain — someone else’s dilemma.

  “Yes ma’am, Dr. Parker stopped by. He’s not sure what’s wrong with him.” She clucks her tongue. I hide my smirk. Makes a better tale if folks think Lewis is at death’s door.

  “Surely, under the circumstances, Mr. Vaughn will let you off of work early?” I shake my head. I am serious about my job. Mr. Vaughn took a chance hiring an ex-convict as his assistant. He is the only druggist in town but still, he might have lost business by havin’ me here. I return the jar I was polishing to the shelf and reach for the next one. I adjust the label to square it in the holder.

  “No ma’am, I can’t leave. Mr. Vaughn is visiting his daughter in Kansas City for a spell, so there is no one else to keep the store open.”

  “He isn’t back from his Christmas trip?” She places her plump hand on her ample bosom— shocked, “but it’s the third of January!”

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s been tired lately and planned on this being a nice long visit so he could rest.”

  “Oh. But still, I can’t abide a druggist shirking his duty and going off in the middle of influenza season.” Mrs. Collier huffs and arranges her mouth into what I am sure she feels is an attractive pout.

  “It’s fine ma’am,” I send her a small smile, “he trained me well and left a good store of things mixed up. I can dispense the medicine in case anyone needs something.” I set the jar back in its spot and line it up precisely with the bottles on either side.

  “Oh, you poor dear. Yes, yes, well,” she looks around the shelves, “Do you have a concoction for poor Lewis?”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m taking something special over to him tonight. It should set him up just fine. It will take care of his fever and fix it so he has no more pain.” I fold my polishing cloth carefully into a neat square and set it under the counter.

  “You are such a good brother! So caring for your family!” she gushes. I duck my head and shrug. I adjust the roll of brown paper at the edge of the counter to line up. I tear off a thin strip of paper to even up the edge. Mr. Vaughn is always leaving the edge ragged. I can’t abide that. I like everything nice and orderly. I notice Mrs. Collier looking at me again.

  “Thank you ma’am,” I say, “Is there anything else I can help you with? I need to finish up so I can go help Lewis.” A small niggling starts low in my belly.

  Chapter 20

  April 24, 1891

  En-route to Kansas City, Missouri

  Finn’s silence during the buggy ride back to Kearney and the wait for the train to Kansas City unnerved her. An out of character silence, with his forehead etched in deep furrows and eyes fixed on the ground, it unsettled her. This brooding male was not Finn. She missed his banter and the twinkle in his eye. She missed her peppermints. He was processing something, and she knew in her gut when he finished, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Now as she swayed with the motion of the train, it hit her. He wasn’t napping. Finn always slept on rail cars. At least in her experience. She moved a fraction to get a better peripheral view. No, not sleeping. Nor was he looking out the window. He stared at the dingy red fabric of the empty seat across from him. Intently fixed, as if his eyes were boring a hole. She shifted again. Finn’s stare jumped to her. She felt like a mouse trapped under the paw of a cat. Or perhaps in the talons of a bird of prey? Sam turned to him. She met his scrutinizing eyes and raised an eyebrow. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  “How many cases do you work a year?” Finn didn’t blink.

  “I… am not sure. Two or three a month?”

  He nodded his head, eyes fixed on hers. “I’m curious, let’s take January three… no four years ago. Did you have a case?”

  “I’m sure I don’t remember—” She tried to swallow.

  “Well, let’s make it easier, how about last year? Where did you work? How many cases that month?” Sam remained silent as Finn turned to face her. “Tell me, exactly how many years has it been since the Gittin murders?” His gaze narrowed.

  “Almost seven.” The blood dropped from her face.

  “I’m not thick-headed, you know.” His voice was modulated but his flexing jaw muscles attested to the strain of keeping himself under control.

  “I… I’m not sure what you mean, I have—” Panic rose in her chest.

  “Don’t. Just… don’t.” Finn held up his palm.

  “Marshal, I’m—” Her eyes darted between his.

  “Miss Lawton, how do you remember so many details about the Gittin murders?”

  “Well… a horrific case stays with a pers—” Finn slammed his hand on the seat arm. Sam jumped.

  “No. More. Lies. Ye ‘ave evidence don’ ya? In your possession don’ ya?” Finn took off his cap and furiously scrubbed his hand through his hair. “If yer actions ‘ave cost the life of that lil boy…” He swung back around and drew in a long, noisy breath.

  “Finn… marshal, you need to believe me I would never withhold something important. I…” The window grayed as fat drops spit at it.

  “And I ‘av neary a idea o’ waat be there or waat be useful, Miss Lawton.” He turned back toward her, hurt gleamed in his eyes. “Why? Did ya na trust me?”

  Sam sagged. “I… I am not… sure.”

  * * * * *

  Finn stared at the woman next to him. How could anyone be that selfish? That self-centered to risk a child? Had he completely misjudged her? She’d be as guilty as the one who did the deed, if the boy turned up dead. Anything but that Lord, please. Please. His body shook. His hands shook. His heart shook. Fury unloaded in his veins.

  “Did ya jist want,” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Did you want to be the expert? The one who understood everything?” Sam flinched. “This is na’ a game. The boy’s life is in danger.”

  “I would never do that!” A film of tears covered her eyes. Good. But not enough. If she had only-

  “Yes, when you first approached me I didn’t know you. How could I trust you? I have evidence in my possession I shouldn’t. I could be prosecuted. But that isn’t why I withheld it.”

  “Why did you?” Finn searched her face. Looking for a sign she wasn’t the conceited monster he feared.

  “It was my case,” her voice cracked.

  His gut clenched, just as he feared. “Jurisdiction?” His voice rose an octave. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No! No one else even believed it was a case. I… they dismissed it. Without a second look. The only way, and I mean only way, to get justice was to pursue it on my own.”

  “So you turned vigilante?” His eyes blazed.

  Sam threw up her hands. “No! I want to find him, turn him in. I want justice, for his butchered wife, his mutilated children, for me. I want him to get what he deserves. I want to be exonerated. I want everyone to understand I wasn’t just a green newbie. I want everyone to see I was right.”

  Finn sat back slowly and quirked an eyebrow. Did she realize what she said? This was personal. “At the expense of a little boy?” he asked quietly.

  Sam covered her face. “No. No. Never.” She dropped her hands and met his gaze unflinching.

  “When we return to Kansas City, you will turn over yer records. Everythin’.” Finn couldn’t look at her. He stood and swayed with the motion of the train. He heard the staccato splat of rain drops on the roof increase as he moved to an empty seat. He leaned back trembling with a rage that shook and shocked him. He stared unseeing out the dripping window and prayed for the journey to end.

  ✽✽✽

  “Bobby lad! You always seem to appear when supper’s ready.” Mabel Finnley grinned and swatted Finn on the arm. The tangy aroma of fried cabbage and salt pork with a bit of vinegar floated through the kitchen.

  “I’m not hungry, ma. I—” At a loud rumble from his stomach and her lips pursed and eyebrows raised. It was the face she wore ri
ght before she used his full name. All three of them. He sighed, he was staying for dinner. She ladled cabbage on two plates and motioned for him to sit.

  “My, my, two visits in one week?” She set a plate in front of him and a much smaller portion for herself.

  “I not be eating all your food, ma,” Finn grumbled as he pushed part onto her plate.

  “I’m not that hungry,” she protested. At Finn’s scowl she picked up her fork. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “So, ya goin’ to tell me about it?” She glanced at him, fork poised halfway to her mouth.

  Finn kept his eyes on his plate. “ ‘Bout what?” He scooped up a mouthful.

  “Waat be botherin’ ya.” She placed a dainty bite in her mouth as she examined him.

  Finn pushed back from the table. Appetite gone, he ran a hand through his hair causing it to burst out in the curls he tried to tame each morning. “There be this girl.” Wrong thing to say he groaned as his mother’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

  “A girl ya say?”

  “Aye, mum, I know one or two.” He scowled. “Actually, a woman, not a girl.” Mabel scooted to the edge of her chair. Finn held up a palm. “It not be waat yer thinkin’. She’s a colleague. We’re workin’ on a case.”

  “Oh? What case?”

  “Been in the papers. Missing boy? His da might ‘ave taken off with him?”

  “Ah,” she looked at her plate as she chased the last strands of cabbage with her fork.

  “I suspect the da may be part of an old case that this girl—”

  “Woman?” Mabel’s grin stretched across her face.

  Finn rolled his eyes. “Aye, woman, worked a time ago.” She frowned at him, questions in her eyes. Finn rubbed his temples. He wasn’t making sense. “Aye, mum, the old case concerned a man that murdered his family. The woman, Sam… Miss Lawton, worked it as a Pinkerton agent years ago.”