Lawdog: The Life and Times of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  Far as anyone in court that day could tell, ole Bob would certainly hang for killing my family. But, like I said before, Noble didn’t stop there and Judge Parker allowed all of it. Mason kept up the attack and called over a dozen others who’d witnessed the varied and terrible crimes of Magruder and his henchmen. Every time Strawn objected, the Judge simply motioned him back to his seat.

  The testimony of that parade of God-fearing citizens had a visible impact on the killer. His arrogance and swagger faded. His belligerent attitude went into hiding. About halfway through the day he refused to look anyone in the courtroom in the eye. The public airing of his transgressions seemed to douse most of the fire left in the man.

  Once Billy Bird turned to me and whispered, “I knew he’d cave when the full weight of what would surely happen hit him. The man can see his own hanging coming now. He’s done. Even if he weren’t hanged, he’ll never be the same. He wouldn’t get a mile away from this courthouse, now, before someone killed him. It’s over, Hayden.”

  “Not till I see him swing, Billy. Not till I see him swing.”

  I suppose everyone who had a Magruder horror to relate thought his or hers was the worst. Percy Billings’s account of the torture of Captain Roland Gatewood at Minco Springs stunned everyone. But not even such heartless disregard for a fellow man’s life as Magruder showed at Minco Springs compared to some of his other criminal activity.

  Several folks from Texarkana relived the death of little Suzan Moody. As Michael Moody described the broken body of his only child, tears streamed down the faces of even the most callous. Range-toughened cowhands, crime-hardened marshals, red-necked farmers, and tight-fisted bankers openly wept when Moody was so overcome with anguish he could no longer speak. Noble rested his case after Moody testified.

  Later he told me, “I just didn’t think the court could’ve taken any more horror.”

  Gotta hand it to Marcus Aurelius Strawn. He brought in a string of character witnesses who reeled off glowing stories about his murderous client. The Reverend Mr. Cobb and the deacons from his church recited individual experiences attesting to the Christian goodness of the man. And the sainted, gray-haired Mrs. Robert Magruder, Senior, hobbled to the stand and gave a weepy-eyed performance on the innate benevolence and humanity of her “kindly” son.

  When Mason got an opportunity to cross-examine the old lady, he asked a single question. “Have you ever heard the name Bessie Stubbelfield?”

  Color disappeared from the woman’s cheeks like coffee running off a saucer. Strawn jerked upright as if he’d been hit by lightning. She dabbed her eyes and nose with an embroidered hanky and cast a nervous glance in the direction of the defense table. Strawn stared at his hands.

  “Did you understand the question? Have you ever heard the name Bessie Stubbelfield?”

  Turned out that sweet little old lady owned a whorehouse in El Paso, Texas, and every word of her widely circulated tales about her “son” Robert were nothing more than blackhearted lies. When her “testimony” ended she tottered out of the courtroom amid hisses and boos. Noble Mason noted that he might charge her with perjury sometime in the future. Heard later some of the “good ladies” rode her out of town on a rail.

  Next day, people jammed the courthouse for the prosecutor’s closing remarks. He reminded the jury of every detail of my family’s murders and all the other crimes brought before the bar.

  After describing each transgression in detail, he pointed to Saginaw Bob and thundered, “The witness identified that man as the person responsible for the atrocity.”

  Then, he attacked every inconsistency he could find in the testimony of the defense character witnesses. He used the perjury of Bessie Stubbelfield like a club and gave Marcus Aurelius Strawn a public whipping with it.

  Mason finished with one final admonition to the jury. “Gentlemen, you’ve heard all you need to hear. You know what is right and what is wrong. We expect a verdict of guilty. You know your duty in this matter. Go now and do your sworn duty.”

  Strawn’s final statement turned out to be the most pitiful anyone could remember having heard from the man. I always felt he couldn’t keep his mind on things there at the end. Probably thought the Judge just might throw him in jail for his part in Bessie Stubbelfield’s obvious perjury.

  Anyway, he said, “May it please the court and the gentlemen of the jury, you did indeed hear the evidence. The defense has nothing more to add.”

  Even old-time court followers were thunderstruck by the brevity of his remark. I have little doubt it ranked right up there with the shortest final plea for a defendant ever recorded.

  Judge Parker presented the jury with a brief, but impressive charge. They retired for deliberation and it only took them about ten minutes to bring in a verdict of guilty for the murders of my father, mother, and sister. I heard later they never even got around to a written ballot.

  Foreman Arthur Hunnicutt stood and read in a strong voice, “We, the jury, find the defendant, Robert James Magruder, guilty of murder as charged in the indictment.”

  Took Judge Parker just about two more minutes to sentence the murdering bastard. His words burned a spot in my brain like a brand on a steer.

  “Robert James Magruder, stand up. You have been convicted by a verdict of the jury, justly rendered, of the heinous crime of murder. Have you anything to say why sentence of the law should not be passed on you?”

  Magruder’s head snapped up. “I ain’t got nuthin’ to say to you egg-suckin’ sons of bitches. Go on and get it over with, you black-robed bastard.”

  Judge didn’t even blink. “I do not relish the prospect of being responsible for the departure of any man from this earth at the end of a rope, sir. But, the verdict was an entirely just one, and, by God, you have justly earned such an end. The enormity and wickedness of your sins against mankind leave no room for sympathy for one such as yourself. Therefore, one month from today, between the hours of nine o’clock in the forenoon and five o’clock in the afternoon of the said day, you will be taken to the gallows under guard by the U.S. marshal, or his deputies, and hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God, whose laws you have broken, have mercy on your immortal soul and the souls of all those you’ve sent to him.”

  Courtroom erupted in a torrent of emotion. People whooped with joy and threw their hats in the air. Billy Bird put his arm around my shoulders to keep me from collapsing.

  Old Bear smiled and fingered his huge knife. “It is near, Magruder. Your time with me is near,” he whispered.

  Those thirty days passed like molasses flowing in February. Oh, I went to work, did my job, and saw to the needs of my wife and friends. But when the time for his departure finally came, I must admit it surprised me. In my mind, he died the moment Art Hunnicutt read the verdict. The physical act of sending him to hell was little more than a formality. But, it was a formality I planned to attend. Forced Judge Parker and the U.S. marshal into letting me act as one of the party who escorted ole Bob to the gallows.

  Met with the other five guards that morning. We waited outside the prison door until five minutes before noon. Strawn walked with him when the jailers brought him out. They’d dressed him in a brand spankin’ new preacher’s frock. The old fierceness seemed to have returned. Looked to me like the man planned to go to his Maker in just as defiant a manner as he’d lived his life.

  When he stepped outside, and we started toward Maledon’s playground, he swelled up and looked pleased with the size of the crowd. Bixley Conner said later he’d never seen that many people in town for a single hanging.

  God gave him a beautiful, crisp morning to die. Few puffy, fast-moving clouds here and there. Huge throng of people gathered on the grounds. Hush kind of washed back through the multitude as we made our way past them and started up the steps of the platform. Reverend Mr. Cobb walked with us. Prayed loud enough to be heard in St. Louis. Maledon’d set up a single noose at the end of the scaffold next to the steps. U.S. marshal read the death war
rant then gave Magruder the chance to say some final words. He waited so long Maledon stepped up with the hood. Magruder shook it aside then went on a hell of a rip.

  Sounded like he was preaching one of his sermons when he said, “You biscuit-eatin’ sons of bitches make me sick. For the past ten years, I’ve robbed men, raped women, murdered anyone I wanted, stole cattle, and done as I damn well pleased. If I had it to do over again, I’d do all that and worse. It took you sanctimonious, churchgoin’ bastards more than a decade to finally do something about it. You know why? You’re cowards, every damned one of you. No more guts than a garter snake. You’re average, and the average man is a yellow-bellied rabbit waitin’ to get skinned. Decisive men, men of power, man killers who have no fear of the law, other men’s opinions, or the prospect of death will always prey on such as you. You’re sheep just waitin’ to be sheared, cattle waitin’ to be butchered.”

  Then he turned on me with a look that could have scorched the devil’s doormat. “If I’d been a better shot, Tilden, you’d be dead, and I wouldn’t be in this fix. See you in hell, boy.”

  Mr. Maledon got Bob’s next verbal broadside. “Thought you were gonna hang me, you grave-ugly son of a bitch. Let’s get on with it.”

  Executioner just stood there and smiled back. Shadow from one of those clouds crept across the stage and made Maledon’s face look like a skull.

  Some folks in the mob who had heard what ole Bob said started screaming, “Hang him, hang him, hang the son of a bitch!”

  Magruder glared at me and winked as Maledon started to pull the hood over his head. I think the last thing he saw on this earth, when he turned away from me, was the smiling face of a child in the front row who sat on his pa’s shoulders and held an ear of roasted corn.

  Junior glanced up from his notes. He sounded eager, his questions more urgent. “You’re sure about that? The last thing he saw was probably a child eating corn?”

  “As sure as I can be. But if you’re looking for drama, Junior, don’t look to a towheaded kid with a roasting ear in his hand. You won’t believe what happened next.” I hesitated just long enough to let that sink in and build on the boy. He took the bait like a starving bass.

  “What? What happened? Come on. Come on. Quit smiling like the Cheshire cat and get on with it.”

  “Well, during Bob’s speech—and while Maledon slipped the noose over his head and cinched the knot up tight against his ear—a small black cloud split from those others, came across the Arkansas from the southwest, and stopped almost directly over the stage. Once everything looked the way Mr. Maledon wanted it, he stepped over to the lever and threw it. Platform disappeared under Magruder’s feet, and the open hole swallowed him up. But, before his body hit the end of that piece of oiled hemp, a searing bolt of lightning fell from that cloud and shattered the right front corner of the gallows, not fifteen feet from where I stood. Resulting thunderclap rattled every window for miles around.”

  “Aw, come on now. Lightning hit the gallows?”

  “Yep. Knocked me colder than January in Kansas. When I came around, Handsome Harry was slapping my face. I’d landed on the ground about ten feet from where I started. Harry pulled me back to my feet. Hundreds of people were on their knees praying. Reverend Mr. Cobb passed out and, for a while, people thought he’d died. Heard one woman say she felt God sure enough approved Magruder’s exit from this world. One old man ran through the crowd shouting, ‘He’s cookin’ in hell! He’s cookin’ in hell!’ I stumbled back onto the scaffold. There was a black streak ran from the corner post to the trap and dove into the hole. Magruder’s body was spinning at the end of that rope like a kid’s top, and smoke poured from the sack covering his head. I looked up, and the sky was as clear as a glass of water.”

  “You’re sincere about this? You know I can go back and check the newspapers. You’re not just telling the greenhorn a big stretcher here, are you, Tilden?”

  “Do what you have to, Junior. Check the Elevator under ‘Saginaw Bob Executed: A Remarkable Occurrence.’ But that’s not the end of it.”

  “Oh, my glorious God. What else? Come on, give me all of it.”

  “That night I went over to Grubbs’ Funeral Home and sat with the body for over an hour. Just to satisfy myself he was gone for good, you know. Went back home to Elizabeth and—for the first time in longer than I could remember—slept like a man restored. Next morning, all the local newspapers carried the story of the execution. One had a side bar special a few days later that told of an odd happening at Grubbs’. Seems Clarence Grubbs claimed that when he went to embalm the body, he found a hole in the man’s chest—the heart had gone missing.”

  “Oh, my Lord. Old Bear actually stole Magruder’s heart?”

  “Never really knew the answer to that one for sure. We buried the outlaw, minus his black heart, of course, in an obscure area of the graveyard. Someone planted a marker made from the upper half of an outhouse door. Thing just kind of mysteriously appeared a few days after the burial. People were so superstitious, at the time, no one had nerve enough to take it down.”

  “What about Old Bear?”

  “He showed up again about a week after the hanging. I didn’t question him about his comings and goings. We never discussed where he’d been. Didn’t have time. By then, a renegade half-breed named Charlie Two Knives was leading a party of killers on a rampage across the southern half of the Territories, and Judge Parker wanted him caught or killed. Billy, Harry, and I got back out on the scout pretty quick. Old Bear and the dog shadowed us everywhere we went.”

  Junior fell back into his chair and groaned like he’d been poleaxed. “Oh, God. It’s late. I’ve got to go. I’m going to spend the rest of this week writing all this up. First installment—or chapter—should be in next Sunday’s paper, if I can get it ready in time.”

  He staggered to his feet. General Black Jack Pershing hopped to the floor, then to my lap. Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr. shook my hand. “It’s been quite a ride, Marshal Tilden, quite a ride. Thanks for the trip.”

  “My pleasure, Junior. Don’t be a stranger.”

  He wobbled down the hallway and waved absently over his shoulder. “I’ll send you copies of everything that’s printed.”

  Couple of days later, Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank herself wheeled Carlton out. He looked happier than a dog with two tails—had his head pushed back against that gal’s extensive chest like it was a goose-down pillow.

  When she strutted away he said, “Just love that big-boned woman. Wish I was sixty again.” After his mind finally came back to reality, he realized Junior hadn’t made an appearance. “Where’s our pink-faced boy, Hayden?”

  “Oh, he won’t be back for a few days.”

  He cupped his right hand over his ear. “You say he won’t be back?”

  “Won’t be back for a few days.” Had to yell at him that time.

  “You tell him everything? You tell it all, like I said?”

  “Not quite everything.”

  “Tell him about Albino Bob Thornton?”

  “Didn’t get to Albino Bob.”

  “What’d ya say?”

  “No, didn’t get to the Albino,” I yelled.

  “How ’bout Three Toed Willie Thornton?”

  “Nope.”

  “Colonel Black Jack Rix?”

  “Didn’t make it to Black Jack either.”

  “What about Smilin’ Jack Paine, Dennis Limberhand, and Cotton MaCabe?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Hell, old man, you didn’t tell him anything.”

  “Oh, I told him enough. We’ve got a hook in him now, Carl. He’ll be back. That boy’s gonna become a permanent fixture around the Rolling Hills Home for the Aged, as long as one of us can manage to keep telling stories. The life and times of Hayden Tilden and Carlton J. Cecil are gonna end up being the only thing he can think about. Hey, he still hasn’t heard about Gopher Riley, L. B. Ledoux, or Chief Buffalo Head Long Feather. Barefoot Johnson, Matthew Standing Elk, or
Lowdog. They’re all waiting for him.”

  “Always liked that story ’bout Oliver White Eagle, myself. Wasn’t with you on that ’un, Hayden, but liked hearin’ ’bout it anyway. Say, could you put Black Jack in my lap? He’ll warm me up. I think I’ll take a nap.”

  “I swear, Carlton, it’s got to be over ninety already. Just don’t understand how you can be cold.” I dropped Black Jack in his lap and started for the lunchroom to get us some bowls of that green Jell-O Carl likes so much.

  He gathered in the cat like it was more important than gold. “You’ll wake me up when Junior comes back, won’t you, Hayden?”

  “You bet, Carl. Soon as the boy shows that seriously shaved face of his.”

  He pulled his shawl tighter, stroked Black Jack’s head, and nodded. “Good. Wouldn’t want to miss any of Hayden’s stories, now would we, Black Jack?”

  I don’t care what Carlton says, I still believe that old man hears a lot better than he lets on.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jimmy Butts earned a Bachelor of Science in Education degree, with a major in English and minors in American History and Communications from Henderson State University. He taught seniors in public schools for thirteen years. An early flirtation with the military led to an eight-year hitch with the U.S. Army Reserve and a rank of sergeant upon discharge.

  Jimmy left the teaching profession in 1981 to seek a career with IBM in Los Angeles, California. After six years with the company as customer relations representative to MGM, 20th Century Fox, Orion, William Morris Agency, and other well-known entertainment accounts, he left IBM and worked for a short time in the public sector before his wife Carol’s continued relationship with IBM sent them to Kansas City and then to Dallas in 1992.

  Golf, shooting, fencing, and travel comprise his extracurricular activities. For the past five years he has devoted all his time to writing and the pursuit of publication. He writes for the love of it and attends weekly meetings of the DFW Writers Workshop in an effort to hone the skills required of his accomplished authors. This is his second year as president of DFWWW.