That Night at the Palace

by Watson, L. D.

  “Where do you think he went?”

  “I don’t know. He said somethin’ about cleanin’ up a loose end.”

  McKinney turned around and looked into the glass mirror. All he could see was himself, but he knew Chief Hightower was there.

  “Cherokee.”

  The old Ranger darted for the door.

  #

  PLEASANT GROVE,

  CHEROKEE COUNTY TEXAS

  11:45 p.m., December 6, 1941

  Cherokee-One-Leg sat still in his rocking chair looking up the long lane from his house. It was a cool night, and he had on his old cavalry long-coat, but that wasn’t enough, so he also had a blanket lying across his lap. It annoyed him that the cold tended to bite him so much more as he got older. There had been a time when he and his little brother would have gone hunting on a night like this wearing little more than Arapaho leggings and moccasins.

  Cherokee had his army Colt in its holster on his waist and his W.W. Greener double-barreled shotgun was resting across his lap. The Greener was a much finer weapon than Cherokee had ever owned or could ever have afforded, with its crafted inlay and monogrammed stock. It was his finest possession, not because of the price tag, but because it had been a gift from none other than President Theodore Roosevelt himself. After Cuba, Roosevelt wanted to go on a hunting trip into the high Rockies and asked Master Sergeant Julius Caesar Bradford, whom he and most of the army referred to as Sergeant Cherokee, to go along as his guide. Colonel Roosevelt enjoyed hunting like no one Cherokee had ever met. He liked to hunt just about anything from bear to deer and even pheasant and dove. Cherokee understood shooting a bear or deer. Both of those animals produced good meat, and the hides were quite useful as well. But those little birds hardly had any meat worth eating, and they didn’t have any hides at all. Still, Cherokee couldn’t help but admire the fine shotgun Roosevelt carried to shoot the birds. A month after he retired from the service, a box arrived at his home with the shotgun inside. On the stock was a brass plate with the inscription:

  To Master Sergeant Bradford

  One of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known.

  Thank you for your years of service.

  Theodore Roosevelt,

  President of the United States of America

  Cherokee’s telephone had rung five minutes earlier. It was a signal that there was an unknown car driving through the Grove. The telephone was a new edition to Pleasant Grove. Most of Texas had gained access to telephones ten years earlier, but in places like the Grove, public services tended to arrive later than everywhere else.

  He’d really had no need for a telephone, but for lines to be strung all the way out to Pleasant Grove, at least ten residents had to sign up for service. Since Cherokee was one of the few who could afford the monthly bill, he signed up to make it an even ten. Tonight Cherokee was glad to have it.

  He watched as a car turned onto the lane about a quarter of a mile ahead. The headlights switched off as the vehicle slowly approached. When the car got about halfway down the lane, three pickup trucks turned onto the lane behind it. They didn’t bother switching their lights off. When the car got about twenty yards from the house it stopped. The three trucks continued until all three were lined up, side by side, a few feet behind the car.

  Cherokee stood to his feet and stepped to the edge of the porch without his crutch. The Greener was resting in the crook of his arm.

  The car sat there, unable to back out and with Cherokee directly in front of it. Cherokee watched as a large black man got out of one of the pickups and approached the driver. The car started to leap forward, but in a flash, the old cavalryman whipped up the Greener and shot a hole in the front windshield. The car stopped suddenly and sat there as the large black man opened the driver’s door. The man then took Richard Crawford by the collar and pulled him kicking and screaming to Cherokee’s front porch.

  “Is this him, Cherokee?” the large man asked.

  “Yep, that man’s the reason they lynched Bucky.”

  #

  PLEASANT GROVE

  CHEROKEE COUNTY TEXAS

  12:15 a.m., December 7, 1941

  McKinney drove slowly through the small community. There were probably seventy to a hundred homes in Pleasant Grove. Most of the families in these homes were related, though possibly a couple of generations removed. The town had sprung up sometime after the Civil War and had grown with each new generation.

  There was something eerie about the town at that moment that McKinney couldn’t quite figure out.

  Suddenly Chief Hightower said, “Stop the car.”

  McKinney stopped, not so much because he was told to, but because he felt like he needed to.

  “The lights,” the chief said. “All the houses have lights on. I’ve driven through here at night a dozen times, and the lights are always out.”

  “Everybody’s up,” McKinney said as he looked around. “Why would they all be up this late at night?”

  The chief then whipped his head around looking at every house.

  “The trucks are gone.”

  “Trucks?”

  “Everybody here has a pickup. They’re all gone,” he said as he opened the door. “I’m going to ask somebody what’s going on.”

  “No. We need to get out of here. The last thing they want around here right now is the law. We’ll worry about this in the daylight.” McKinney said as he put the car into reverse and turned around.

  “Do you think Richard got Cherokee?”

  “No. I think Cherokee got him. I just hope that tomorrow we don’t have another killin’ on our hands.”

  #

  THE PALACE THEATER,

  ELZA, TEXAS

  9:00 p.m., August 12, 1936

  Cliff and Cherokee were sitting in the old man’s Model-AA pickup two blocks away from the Palace Theater. After they’d made their deliveries and Jewel had gone home, Cliff tried to talk Jesse out of going to the movie with the Crawfords. The boys knew Peterson had seen Jesse that terrible night.

  Jesse didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be with Gemma, but he was afraid of her father. He reasoned that Mr. Crawford couldn’t do anything to him in the movie theater and certainly wouldn’t with Gemma there.

  Cliff wasn’t so sure, though. When Jesse went home to clean up for the movies, Cliff headed straight for Cherokee’s. The two decided that the only thing they could do was sit outside the theater and make sure Jesse got home all right.

  “Are you sure your parents don’t mind you being out at night?”

  “Of course they mind,” Cliff said. “I told ‘em that I was tired from work. They think I’m asleep.”

  “What if they check to see if you’re in bed?”

  “Then I’ll get in trouble,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “You’re not afraid that you’ll get a whippin’?”

  “Aw, Cherokee. I get a whippin’ every few days anyway.”

  Up the block, people started walking out of the Palace.

  “Movie’s out,” Cliff said.

  #

  Jesse and Gemma came out of the theater together. Peterson, Anna-Ruth, and Jettie were behind them. When they got across the street, Peterson said, “Anna, why don’t you walk the girls to the house. I’ll drive Jesse home.”

  Jesse’s stomach tightened. “That’s okay. I just live a couple of blocks over.”

  “Oh, I can’t let you walk home alone at night. Besides, I’ve got to take care of some business.” Peterson argued.

  Anna-Ruth glared at her husband. She was accustomed to him being away at nights on “business” and clearly didn’t like it.

  “Honey, you know that a lot of my work takes place at night.”

  “Okay,” she said, somewhat perturbed as she led Gemma and Jettie away.

  “Bye, Jesse,” Gemma said a
s she followed her mother.

  “Bye,” Jesse said as the knot tightened in his stomach.

  Peterson turned in the direction of his car. “Come on, Jesse.”

  Jesse stood still. Peterson then put a hand on Jesse’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he ordered.

  Jesse looked around. Most of the people from the movie were either getting into cars or walking a few blocks up. He could see Chief Hightower in the lobby of the Palace and started to try to move away in that direction, but Peterson tightened his grasp on Jesse’s shoulder.

  “Get in the car,” Crawford said in a tone that was nothing less than a demand.

  Jesse tried to run, but Peterson grabbed his shirt collar so tightly that the boy couldn’t get free. He then opened his suit coat, revealing a Smith and Wesson .38 Police Special tucked in his trousers.

  “I said get in the car,” Peterson ordered again with an even icier tone.

  With his hand on Jesse’s neck, Peterson led the boy to the driver’s side of his car.

  “Get in,” Crawford ordered as he opened the door.

  Jesse climbed in and tried to slide to the far side and get out, but Peterson quickly got in and grabbed the boy. With his left hand he pulled the revolver from his pants.

  A block up, Cliff tensed as they watched Jesse getting into the car with Peterson Crawford. The boy and man sat silently as Peterson started the car and drove past them and out onto the highway.

  Cherokee started his truck and said, “Go home.”

  Cliff looked at Cherokee. “I’m going with you.”

  The old man pulled the truck out onto the street and said, “You really should go home.”

  “If you make me get out, I’m just gonna get on the back of your truck.”

  Cherokee sat there in the street for a moment, contemplating what to do. He really didn’t need another kid along, but he realized there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Hurry. We don’t want to lose them,” Cliff demanded.

  Peterson drove with one hand on Jesse and the other holding the steering wheel and the revolver. He didn’t want to shoot the kid, but there could be no choice. The brat had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. If he had to kill him, Peterson would drop the kid in the river. They may find him in a few days, but Peterson would say that he had dropped the kid off at home. He’d be questioned, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything.

  He turned off the highway onto the dirt county road that headed up and across the railroad tracks. He pulled to a stop on the rise where the dirt road crossed the track.

  “You and your friend sure do get around,” he said.

  Jesse just sat there. His heart was pounding as he searched for a way out.

  “So what were you doing in that alley that night?”

  Jesse just looked at the man.

  “Not going to talk, huh. I guess you’re not going to tell me what happened to Sarah?”

  Jesse continued to sit there looking at the man as Peterson let go of Jesse’s collar and in one swift move whipped his right hand into Jesse’s face, hitting him firmly in the nose. Then in a fit of fury, he began hitting the boy over and again with his fist and slamming him against the right side door. As Jesse was pounded on, he tried to open the door, but Crawford grabbed him by the hair and put the gun barrel against Jesse’s head.

  “You’ve caused me and my brother a lot of trouble. Now, tell me what happened to Sarah.”

  Jesse squirmed and tried to pull away, but Peterson yanked hard on his hair and pressed the gun so hard against his head that it left an indentation in his skin. He felt something moist on his face as he realized that his nose was bleeding.

  Peterson then looked up into his rear-view mirror.

  “Well, it looks like we have company,” he said. “I’d bet even money that’s your one-legged friend.”

  Jesse looked back to see the faint outline of Cherokee’s Model-AA pickup rolling up the road toward them. The headlights were off, but Jesse knew that it had to be Cherokee.

  Peterson opened the door and slid out, pulling Jesse along by the hair.

  “You’re just a nuisance, but that old one-leg is a real problem. Have you ever watched a man die, Jesse?”

  “What are you going to do?” Jesse asked as he fought being dragged by the hair toward the old railroad trestle.

  “I’m going to shoot that old man, thanks to you.”

  “No,” Jesse protested, trying to pull himself free.

  Peterson dragged Jesse halfway to the trestle and waited.

  Cherokee pulled the truck to a stop a few yards behind Peterson’s car. He and Cliff could see Peterson up on the tracks, holding Jesse by the hair. The old man stared icily at Peterson and then instinctively reached down to his belt and checked that the flap was pulled back on his old cavalry holster.

  “Stay here,” he said to Cliff as he opened the door.

  Cliff started to speak, but Cherokee swiftly, and far too quickly for a man his age, put his hand on Cliff’s shoulder.

  “This time, you’re stayin’.”

  Cliff glanced down, and for the first time saw the holstered revolver on Cherokee’s belt.

  Cliff swallowed hard. “Okay, Cherokee.”

  The old man climbed out of the truck. He left his crutch behind and hobbled up the slope of the tracks. He had a little trouble because his wooden leg kept pressing into the soft ground. The old man was winded when he finally got up the rise.

  Jesse, still squirming, yelled, “Go back, Cherokee! Go back!”

  Peterson didn’t waste any time. Once the old man was squarely on the track, Peterson fired the weapon. The shot hit Cherokee’s wooden leg, causing the old man to stumble to his knee. Cherokee returned fire but aimed high to avoid accidently hitting Jesse. His shot nicked Peterson’s right temple.

  Cliff leaped out of the truck and ran toward Cherokee.

  Peterson was surprised that the old man had fired back and even more surprised that he’d been hit. He raised his gun-hand to his head and simultaneously stepped backward. His foot hit the rail, causing him to fall backwards, taking Jesse with him as the two tumbled down the rise. Peterson quickly got to his feet and rushed up to the track. Jesse fell a little farther down the slope but got to his feet almost as quickly. Next to him was a broken tree limb. He grabbed it off the ground and followed Crawford up the slope. The limb was much heavier than he had expected, but he ran up behind Crawford with the limb in his hand anyway.

  When Peterson got up to the track, Cherokee was already on his feet with Cliff beside him. The old man started to fire his weapon but stopped when he saw Jesse come up the slope. Peterson raised his gun to fire just as Jesse’s tree limb hit him squarely across the face. Stunned, the man fell limp to the ground, hitting his head on one of the rails.

  Both terror and stress erupted from Jesse as the boy hit the man again on the head. He felt the skull crack, but the Bois d’Arc branch stayed intact. Crawford lay there lifeless as Jesse struck the man yet again, releasing weeks of tension that he’d held inside since watching Sarah die.

  Cliff ran up the tracks to Jesse’s side and stopped his friend, who was rearing back to pound on the man again. The two stood there for several minutes looking at Peterson’s bloody, unrecognizable face as Cherokee hobbled up to them. Jesse tossed the tree limb off the tracks and suddenly started to cry. As much as he tried, he couldn’t stop himself. Cherokee put his arms around both boys and held them tightly to him. They stood there silently with hearts pounding, sobbing as they looked down at Gemma’s father.

  Finally, after several minutes, Jesse calmed down.

  “Boys,” Cherokee said, “we can’t just hide this one. We’ve gotta get the chief.”

  Jesse wiped the tears from his eyes, “No.”

  “We can’t just hide another one. Folks will b
elieve one person ran off, but they ain’t gonna believe it a second time.”

  Cliff looked up the tracks at Peterson’s car.

  “Then we let ‘em find him.”

  #

  An hour later Cherokee pulled his flatbed Ford to a stop on Main Street and let the boys out. In the distance they heard the whistle of the ten-thirty train headed to Houston. All three instinctively looked in the direction of the tracks, and then the two boys and the old Indian headed off without saying a word.

  It had taken them most of the hour to carry Peterson’s body back to the car. Once he was in, Cliff started the motor and drove it squarely onto the railroad crossing. Cherokee had a jug of his corn whiskey in this truck, so they splashed most of the jug on Peterson and the seat. They then broke the jug on the track, making sure that it would be found.

  #

  FOREST

  NORTH OF ELZA, TEXAS

  1:20 a.m., December 7, 1941

  Cherokee-One-Leg was sitting on a wooden chair in an old broken down barn. Around the room hung oil lanterns that put out a dim orange glow. Friends of his grandfather had built the barn nearly a hundred years before. It sat on what was once a thriving piece of farmland but had long since been overgrown by trees and brush. The nearest home was almost a half-mile away.

  A dozen men surrounded the old warrior; all the men were black. A shirtless Richard Crawford hung suspended before him. His hands were tied to a crossbeam above. Each leg was tied to a rope that wrapped around a pulley. One pulley was connected to the wall to his right and another pulley to his left. Every five minutes two men pulled on the ropes and his legs were stretched apart another inch or two, and the man would scream in agony.

  The door opened and Mert Davis walked into the barn. His face and hair had showed considerable age since the day Bucky was lynched. Mert looked at Cherokee, who nodded. Mert then walked in front of where Crawford hung.

  “You were there? You were there when Bucky got hanged?” the old man asked.

  Richard was in obvious agony, to the point that he hardly heard the man. It took him a moment to realize what he was being asked.

  Richard looked at Mert and shook his head and said, “No.”