by J. Lee Butts
Story about us catching the evil rascal must have been running ahead of us like a grass fire. Sizable crowd gathered at Vinita station when we got down. Locals seemed awestruck. But the possibility of losing him to someone bent on vengeance didn’t hit me till we got back out on the trail.
Several times men rode up carrying rope already braided in a hangman’s knot. One said, “Give him to me. No need to waste time on the son of a bitch. They’s a likely limb just yonder. We’ll see he meets the devil today.”
A throng of rowdies formed up on the east side of the Arkansas next to the ferry landing. Things got to looking pretty hairy till Bix and some other marshals showed up. We were all relieved when we finally managed to get Magruder in a cell. The door clanged shut, and he looked back at me like an animal with his foot in a trap. Crowd stood around outside for hours. Long ’bout midnight, they’d managed to get pretty drunk and raised such a ruckus we had to go out and put an end to it.
I didn’t get to see Elizabeth till the day after we got back. Near as I could tell she’d survived her ordeal virtually unscathed and gave no indication a deadly interruption of her life had even occurred.
She kissed me so hard it bruised my lips. Rested her head on my shoulder and said, “Handsome Harry’s going to make it. We moved him from the doctor’s office into a room over the store. I hired a nurse to take care of him.”
“That’s good to hear, Elizabeth. Feared he might be dead by the time we got back.”
“He came close, Hayden. He came real close.”
Went to see him soon as I could. He looked right pale and didn’t talk much, but I could tell he was mighty glad to see me.
“Heard you caught the scurvy cur.” He held my hand like he didn’t want to let go.
“We caught him, Harry. He’s in a cell on Murderers Row right now.”
He leaned back into his pillows. “Good, I think I can sleep some now.”
It’s still an unfathomable mystery how life can step up to the table and deal you out a hand you never in your wildest dreams expected. Elizabeth had moved all the things we kept at the Pines to our new quarters over the store. By her father’s death, we now owned a bank, a general store, several plots of land on both ends of Towson Avenue, and rent houses all over town. Awful to think it, but when Magruder killed Jennings Reed he pretty much ensured me of a fine livelihood, no matter how I chose to spend my time.
First thing I did with some of my newfound wealth was buy Billy a model 1873 Winchester marked One of One Thousand. Elizabeth’s father had the rifle hid in back of his gun case. No one around Fort Smith had been able to come up with enough money to purchase it from him. According to her, Mr. Reed hadn’t done much to try to sell the weapon. She made me pay for it. Said it’d mess with her bookkeeping if we just gave it away.
About a week later, we took Billy out for the evening and presented our little gift to him. He was the proudest man I’ve ever seen, and the envy of all his friends.
Anyhow, Judge Parker’s demand for efficiency was as strong as ever. Magruder’s head barely had time to hit his pillow on Murderers Row when I sat in court and watched as jailers dragged him before the bench and he heard the words that sealed his fate like sour pickles in a glass jar. Judge set his trial date for six months from the first day of confinement. I can remember almost every word Judge Parker said the morning of Bob’s arraignment.
“Normally I would not put the occurrence for such an event so far away from the present date. I do, however, want to give everyone who wishes an opportunity to offer testimony in this prosecution. Since your capture, sir, I have received communications from those all over Arkansas, Texas, and the Indian Nations who wish to publicly tell their stories of your sins against them. Highly unusual—in most cases, my marshals have to go out and drag witnesses in for the trial of a man with your background. It appears many of those you mistreated in the past can’t wait to tell their stories. Additionally, it has come to my attention you have escaped from law enforcement officials and jails in the past. I therefore direct the chief jailer to keep you in shackles until such time as this proceeding resolves itself.”
Magruder’s face flushed. A stream of the hottest language I’ve ever heard poured out of the man. ’Fore the bailiffs could even think to respond, he jumped up on the table between the Judge and the station where those accused stood to hear rulings. Law books, evidence, stacks of depositions, and other related papers skittered all directions as he ran through them and sent himself flying headlong toward the double windows behind Parker’s gigantic desk.
Quicker than any of us could have imagined, the Judge grabbed the soaring outlaw around the neck. They tumbled to the floor and wrestled about in the pile of law books and papers. Magruder screamed at the top of his lungs, but no one could understand him. Sounded like something foreign. Everyone in the court rushed forward to help.
Took two bailiffs and a marshal to pull the crazed outlaw off the Judge. Tussle got even more violent when Magruder managed to bring up a knife from his boot top and put some painful, but minor, cuts in the arms and hands of the men who eventually subdued him. After a few more minutes of his foul mouth, the bailiffs jerked him to his feet and pushed him back to his place. By that time, they’d shackled and chained him hand and foot.
When I glanced back at the Judge, it appeared as though absolutely nothing wayward had occurred. He was totally unruffled and even-keeled when he said, “Sir, this court has seen almost every form of human debris imaginable over the past several years. We have tried murderers, rapists, arsonists, child killers, deviates of manifold types, and almost every other kind of criminal imaginable. This is the first time any of the accused has exhibited brass enough to attempt an escape directly from my courtroom. Your conduct leaves me no choice but to keep you chained until such time as judgment against you has been rendered. I would like you to know too, all those who have attempted escape from this place, prior to your most recent effort, are now dead. Bailiffs, take Mr. Magruder back to his cell. Instruct all the marshals and jailers to watch him closely, and tell them to shoot him if he makes any other such attempt.”
That afternoon Bix Conner strolled into the chief marshal’s office, poured himself a cup from the pot of stout coffee that lived on the big-bellied iron stove, then dropped his sizable bulk into a chair beside me. “Hear tell Magruder done tried to fly out the window behind the Judge’s desk.”
“Yep. Judge himself brought the man down.”
“You saw it, Hayden?” He blew and sipped at the steaming liquid.
“Saw it all, Bix. Trust me, Magruder would never have made it to the window. I had him in my sights as soon as he topped the table in front of Parker’s desk. If one of his fingertips had touched a pane of that glass, we’d be digging a grave right now.”
The old lawman grinned from ear to ear. “Now that would’ve been worth seein’. You gotta admit, though, the crazy scoundrel has a lotta hard bark coverin’ his big arrogant self to pull such a trick. Tried to fly over the Hangin’ Judge. Absolutely astonishin’.”
Well, the Fort Smith Elevator couldn’t print enough about Magruder, his evil deeds, and the coming trial. About two weeks after his birdman imitation, word got out that he’d sent for Marcus Aurelius Strawn. That’s when the heavy-duty stuff really started flying.
In form and execution, lawyer Strawn came close to resembling a traveling tent revivalist who had deliberately set himself on fire and was in the process of trying to put the blaze out with his own voice. Some, who’d heard the man speak at public gatherings in the wilds of untamed Arkansas, held he could whisper loud enough to be heard from a hundred yards away during the passing of a mile-wide cyclone.
I met him over lunch in Julia’s Café about a week after he arrived. He just pulled up a chair to my table and imposed himself on me. “Marshal Tilden, I’m Marcus Strawn.” He held out a hand the size of a dinner plate and acted like it would be my privilege to shake it.
I refused and said, “I
know who you are. Paper’s hereabouts have been full of Marcus Aurelius Strawn lately.” Took an immediate dislike of the flashy lawyer for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that his arrogance knew absolutely no bounds.
The six-and-a-half-foot-tall man leaned back in his chair and eyeballed me like I was a dangerous bug he needed to squash. “You know, Mr. Tilden, I’ve defended Robert Magruder before. Got him off every time.” He had one of those voices made it sound like God spoke through him directly to his audience.
“Mr. Strawn, he’s going to hang this time around. Trust me on this one.”
“I’ve known Bob Magruder for years and cannot believe the charges brought against him. He says he didn’t do any of it. Said it must’ve been someone who looked like him or maybe the witnesses hate him for some unknowable reason.” He brushed cigar ashes from the front of his white linen suit, a costume he evidently wore in the coldest of weather.
“Mr. Strawn, I saw Saginaw Bob Magruder shoot and kill my father. His men murdered my mother and sister. And he’s rubbed out a good many others I’m aware of. By rights he should be dead and buried in Texas as we speak, but killing’s too good for the evil bastard. I want to see his neck stretched. My testimony alone should hang the man. But I’m not unique. A score of witnesses have similar stories to tell and, like me, can’t wait for the trial to start. Your backwoods fame won’t help him, sir.”
I leaned across the table and dropped my voice so low he could barely hear me. “And on top of all that, even if Satan comes straight from the pit and manages to help you get him off, you have my personal assurance he won’t get out of the courthouse alive. Gave up my personal claim on his death once and won’t do it again.”
“That’s mighty bold talk, Marshal Tilden. I might have to speak with Judge Parker about what you just said.”
Sat and stared at him like I wanted to rip his head off somewhere around the neighborhood of his shirt collar. His bushy brows scrunched up in a knot over eyes so brown they were almost black.
“I met Bob Magruder in Mount Pleasant, Texas, ten years ago, Marshal. We shared a game of poker at the Lone Pine Saloon. Worthless piece of human dung named Logan Silvers argued with us over every card hitting the table that night. When Silvers finally branded Bob a cheat, the gunfire was in-stan-taneous. One shot from the Preacher’s pocket pistol caught the loudmouthed rube just over his right eyebrow. Silvers was dead when his head hit the table.”
“You have a point to this story, Mr. Strawn?”
“I do, Marshal Tilden. Local law enforcement jerked Bob up short and put him on trial for murder. I testified on his behalf. Court found him not guilty. We’ve been friends ever since. Got him off several other times when similarly charged. I intend on using all the legal powers at my considerable disposal to get my friend out of your clutches.”
“Your client shot my father in the eye, too, sir. Part of his brains ended up on my face. I intend to walk that murdering son of a bitch to the noose for it. And if, by some fluke of nature, you manage to get him off, I’ll do what I should have done in Texas. And if I have to I’ll come after you next.”
Strawn’s eyeballs looked like saucers. “Takes a lot of nerve to threaten a client’s life right in the face of his lawyer, then threaten his lawyer too.”
“You could be correct about that, sir, but trust me on this matter—I meant every word of it. You might be one of the more highly-thought-of attorneys in Arkansas—by those who don’t know any better—but I’m sure you understand completely that even if you get lucky enough to win another one for ole Bob, a lot could happen between then and the day he walks away from jail again. Truth is, the two of you might just go out together. Not likely, but then you just never know, do you?”
He looked like a man who had just confronted his own mortality for the first time. “You know I might inform the court of that threat, Mr. Tilden.”
“That’s the second time you’ve threatened me with exposure, sir. I’ll deny this conversation ever took place. Who do you think Judge Parker will believe?” He mumbled something else, pushed away from the table, and lumbered to the door. I tried to stay away from him after that.
He had arrived in Fort Smith accompanied by a fragile, gray-haired lady they introduced around town as the mother of Saginaw Bob. Claimed the old woman traveled all the way from New York City in order to testify on behalf of her wayward son. Local newspaper types managed to drum up considerable sympathy on her behalf and, indirectly, for her poor misguided baby boy.
Seems things haven’t changed all that much over the years. Folks who ply the ink-slinging trade haven’t evolved too far past freshwater mussels when it comes to thinking. Given the slightest chance they’ll get all misty-eyed and weepy over the plight of anyone who can cast themselves in the role of victim. Strawn and that old woman did a hell of a job playing pitiful.
Few days after that gray-haired saint made her appearance, the Reverend Mr. Cobb and about ten members from the Church of the Everlasting Redeemer of Celina, Texas showed up. Didn’t take me long to realize lawyer Strawn intended to make it appear Magruder spent most of his time singing hymns for his sweet, elderly mother—who wept profusely for reporters and local churchgoing ladies at the mere mention of his name. Billy warned me things would get a lot worse before they got any better.
All the local newspapers were roundly fooled by their pile of horse fritters. Hardly a day passed that didn’t result in some new revelation about the innate goodness and upstanding citizenship of Robert James Magruder, itinerant minister and devout man of God. Some women in the community openly sloshed tears in every direction after reading about the terrible circumstances of poor Robert’s untimely departure from the comfort and safety of his family home—and the numerous instances of other such charges against him that had also resulted in acquittals. By the time the Preacher actually had his day in the sun, I’d begun to fear he might appear in Parker’s courtroom dragging a wooden cross and sporting a crown of thorns. Rubbed my nerves so raw, I finally had to stop reading the damned newspapers.
Judge named Noble Mason chief prosecutor. He worked like Hephaestus at the forge. Exact opposite of Strawn. Man of small physical stature, natty dresser, blessed with a legal mind some people compared to a crosscut saw. Went at his job with such single-minded devotion those closest to him sometimes feared he would ruin his intellect with such narrow dedication to duty. Hadn’t been for him, Bob’s trial for the murders of my family would have been held in the Eastern District Court of Arkansas. Mason got that changed.
When evil men found out that single-minded little lawyer would prosecute them, many automatically pled guilty rather than go to trial. Marcus Aurelius Strawn’s overconfident and cheery disposition changed dramatically when he discovered who his opponent at the bar was.
14
“OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!”
HONEST TO GOD, when the trial finally started people jammed that courtroom like sardines in a seal-tight. Reporters from Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas had to bargain for whatever seats they could get. Hundreds of spectators milled around outside, and were kept apprised of the proceedings by informers who held the valuable window spots.
Reminded me of that first hanging I saw. Hawkers sold everything from roasted corn on the cob to hand-carved renditions of Maledon’s gallows. Even the prisoners held in the cellar section of the jail got all the blustery details by way of messages shouted down to them by outside observers. Old Bear, Billy, Handsome Harry, and I had choice front-row seats so I’d be right handy when the prosecution called on me. Caesar flopped his big self in a spot on the floor right at my feet.
Court crier, Mr. Hammersley, almost blew our spurs off when he announced Judge Parker’s entrance. “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! The Honorable District and Circuit Courts of the United States for the Western District of Arkansas, having jurisdictions of the Indian Territory, are now in session. God bless the United States and these honorable courts.”
Judge Parker took his
seat, shuffled a pile of papers, glanced around the packed room, and said, “Case before the court today is the United States versus Robert James Magruder—indicted for the murders of Jonathan, Mary, and Rachael Tilden. You may begin, Mr. Mason.”
Lawyer Mason believed so firmly in the ironclad nature of Bob’s guilt for the crimes against my family, he decided to limit my direct oath to that single incident. Most everyone in Arkansas and the Territories had heard of the killings.
Mason had said to me earlier, “Hayden, your story contains such unadorned drama and awful tragedy that the necessity of any prolonged ordeal might be avoided by simply convicting ole Bob of the misfortune he visited on you.”
Despite the fact that Magruder had only been indicted by the grand jury for the murders of my family, Noble planned to follow my testimony with a speedy parade of people who could also personally attest to the outlaw’s astonishing capacity for brutality.
Anyway, when he called me up he only asked two questions. “Marshal Tilden, would you tell the court how you know the defendant?”.
Told it all in as even and emotionless a tone as I could muster, given the gruesome facts. My tale had exactly the impact Mason wanted. Virtually every spectator in the courtroom had a cupped hand over his or her best ear in order to hear what I had to say.
When I finished, the prosecutor shook his finger ominously in Magruder’s direction and said, “And that man, Robert Magruder—alias Saginaw Bob—is the one who killed your father and led the gang of assassins who murdered your sister and mother?”
“Yes, that’s him. I tracked the man in Arkansas, the Nations, Texas, and Kansas. Captured him in Dallas with the assistance of a friend.”
Tried to appear calm. For a bit it felt like I might explode. But when I sneaked a glance at Marcus Strawn’s face, a feeling of peace I hadn’t known in almost two years came over me. Honest to God, he looked like a man staring into a well where clearing waters rapidly revealed the face of doom. He didn’t even bother to question me. Just shook his head. Magruder shot me a look that could have peeled paint off a barn door in Maine.