Born to Be Hanged
Elmer Kelton
Author’s Note: Old outlaws were never allowed to die. Just about every Western badman worth his salt supposedly survived his “official” death and was seen alive long after he was reportedly buried. These legends have grown up about such people as Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Butch Cassidy, and many others of less notoriety.
Judge Orland Sims, who wrote a couple of books about West Texas characters, told me once that he planned to write another to be entitled Dead Outlaws I Have Known. He never did, but he could have. One in particular who piqued his interest was “Blackjack” Ketchum. Blackjack first gained notice in the Knickerbocker community west of San Angelo, Texas. Even as a youngster, he developed a reputation for lawlessness.
The official story is that Blackjack was hanged in Clayton, New Mexico, in 1901, having been wounded and captured in an aborted effort at train robbery. During his long imprisonment, the many appeals and delays, he was fed well and gained considerable weight. The generally accepted version is that the hangman did not take this gain into proper account and dropped Blackjack too far. The grisly result was that the impact severed the outlaw’s head from his body.
The late Glenn Tennis told me that as a teenager he helped his undertaker father move bodies from the old Clayton cemetery to a new site. They found Blackjack’s body well preserved. He said the features still looked like photographs he had seen of Blackjack. Moreover, the head was indeed separate from the body. Nevertheless, a couple of San Angelo old-timers who had known Blackjack were convinced that the hanging was rigged to allow him to survive. One told me he was sure he had seen Blackjack ride up to his brother’s ranch house near the Pecos River some years later.
Though I am confident of Glenn’s account, it is interesting to fantasize that Blackjack survived through some arrangement with the local law. For those who believe in the inexorability of fate, his story might have gone something like this:
Blackjack thought for a moment that he was indeed dead. The rigging hidden beneath his coat had absorbed the impact of the fall and allowed him to land on his feet atop a stack of sandbags, hidden from view behind canvas sheets that screened the bottom of the scaffold. But he had been unable to stand. As he lurched forward, the false noose drew tightly around his neck and choked him. A deputy posted out of sight beneath the scaffold quickly grabbed him. Holding the rope taut above the noose, he loosened its grip enough to allow Blackjack to breathe. He wheezed, struggling for air.
“Quiet,” the deputy whispered urgently. “You want to give the whole thing away?”
Blackjack knew the crowd out there would not give him a second chance. They had come here hungry to see a hanging, and they thought they had. He managed slowly to fill his lungs. His neck burned, blistered by the rope’s rough caress. There was an old saying that some people would complain even if they were hanged with a new rope. He wished this had been an old rope. It would have been more pliable, and easier on his neck’s sensitive skin.
“Hold steady,” the deputy whispered. “We’ve got to keep this rope tight till the crowd breaks up, or they’ll know somethin’ is haywire.”
Presently the deputy was joined by another, and by a doctor who had been brought from out of town because the local physician was too honest to be involved in this kind of subterfuge. They removed the noose and let Blackjack ease his bulk to a sitting position on the sandbags. Blackjack heard the rattle of trace chains. The hearse was pulling up next to the scaffold.
The second deputy said, “You’d better play real dead, or somebody out there will see that things ain’t on the up-and-up. Then there’ll be hell to pay.”
Blackjack held his breath as the doctor leaned over him, pretending to make an examination. “I detect no breath,” the doctor said. “I pronounce him dead.”
One of the deputies helped the undertaker carry a plain wooden casket beneath the scaffold. “He’s too heavy for us to lift,” he said. “Mr. Ketchum, you’ll have to crawl into the coffin yourself.” He looked back to be sure no one could see from outside the canvas.
The thought of lying in that casket brought a surge of nausea. Blackjack wished he had not eaten the hearty breakfast they had brought him as a last meal. He feared he would vomit, but knew he must not.
“Take a deep breath,” the undertaker told him. “Then hold it till we get you into the hearse. A lot of people will be watching.”
He noticed that one of the deputies was scattering a red liquid beneath the scaffold. “Chicken blood,” the man said. “There’s a good reason for it.”
Though Blackjack’s eyes were closed and a thin cloth was laid across his face, he was aware of the bright sun as the coffin was lifted and he was carried out into the open. He heard excited murmuring from the crowd that pushed in for a look. His lungs burned like fire, but he could not afford to breathe. He was aware of darkness as the lid was placed over him. Even then, he feared to take a deep breath. He opened his eyes, but saw only black. Feeling suffocated, he fought against a sudden panic that threatened to engulf him. He had always hated tight places. This one gave him a stifling sense of being buried alive. He fought against a desperate desire to cry out, to beg for someone to open the box and set him free. Judgment prevailed, and he managed to hold silent, though his lungs threatened to burst.
He felt the coffin sliding into the rear of the hearse. In a minute, the horses moved and the wheels were rolling beneath him. Sweating heavily, he pushed the coffin lid up just enough to let in a little light. Black curtains did not allow him to see outside, but on the other hand, they kept bystanders from seeing inside.
The hearse pulled into a shed that he surmised belonged to the undertaker. Someone closed the outside doors and said, “All right, you can climb out now.”
Blackjack trembled, his legs threatening to collapse. The undertaker gave him a half pint of whiskey. Gratefully, he downed half of it without pausing for breath. It helped relieve the cold knot that had built in his stomach. On a wooden slab he saw what appeared to be a body covered by a sheet. “Who’s that?” he asked.
The undertaker said, “A hobo. He fell trying to catch a freight. As far as anybody needs to know, he’s Blackjack Ketchum.”
Blackjack had made a specialty of robbing trains. He shuddered to think how it would be to fall under the wheels of one. “Must’ve been an awful mess.”
“It was. That’s why we scattered the chicken blood. We gave out a story that the noose pinched your head off.”
The deputy who had waited beneath the gallows said, “You’ll have to stay here till after dark. Then I’ll bring you a horse. We want you to ride as far and as fast as you can go, over Raton Pass and into Colorado. If anybody around here was to recognize you, you’d go right back on that scaffold, and the rest of us’d all be in one hell of a fix.”
Blackjack was puzzled. “Why go to all this trouble for me? I’ve got no money to pay you with.”
“A feller up at Trinidad has got a job for you. He’s paid us good to keep you alive and kickin’. We had figured on buryin’ some rocks in your coffin, but that hobo was a lucky break. If anybody ever takes a notion to dig you up, they won’t know but what he’s you.”
Blackjack shuddered. “That’s a damned grisly thought.”
He had slept but little last night, dreading the morning and the strangling grip of the noose, knowing he was on the verge of a long sleep from which he would never awaken. They had not told him of this scheme until just before they took him out of the cell. Now he stretched out on a cot and made up for lost time, sleeping through much of a long day, awakening eager for night so he could put this oppressive town and everybody in it far behind him.
At dark, the deputy brought him a little money and a plate of food. “Eat hearty,” he said. “It’s a long ride up to Trinidad.”
“Several days. What do I do when I get there?”
“You won’t go into town till dark. After midnight you’ll find a saloon known as the
Colorado Miner. After it closes, you’ll knock on the back door. A gentleman will be expectin’ you.”
“What’s his name?”
“You don’t need to know. He’ll know you. Just listen and do what he says. When the job is done, he’ll give you travelin’ money. Afterward, if I was you, I wouldn’t stop ridin’ till I got to Canada, or maybe whatever is north of that.”
Blackjack was uncomfortable about going into a mission without even knowing what it was, but he swallowed his misgivings. He considered himself deeply in debt to the unknown benefactor who had saved him. Without that help, he would by now have been buried in the coffin the hearse had carried out to the graveyard.
Thank God for unlucky hoboes, he thought.
He finished his supper and took a long swig of whiskey. “Now where’s that horse?”
Keeping off the roads, he took several days to ride from Clayton up through the high pass and down the long slope to Trinidad. There weren’t many towns of consequence between there and Montana that he had not seen at one time or another, including this one. He thought he remembered the Colorado Miner, though it was but one of many dram joints in town. He waited as instructed until he judged midnight to have come and gone. He had no watch. His had disappeared along with most of his other personal possessions during the two years or so that he had languished in jail. It seemed that no matter how much everybody had hated him, they had been eager to collect whatever souvenirs they could get their hands on.
He tied the horse to a fence in deep shadows behind the saloon and rapped his big knuckles against the back door. He listened to the floor creak as someone walked across. The door’s hinges squeaked, and it opened just enough for him to see one eye peering out suspiciously. The room was dark.
He asked, “Are you the man I’m supposed to meet?”
“Step inside quickly. The blinds are down. I’ll light a lamp.”
In the dim glow Blackjack took a long look at the face, and in particular at squinted eyes that seemed to bore a hole through him. The man appeared well-to-do by the cut of his clothes. He said, “You probably do not remember me, but I was in the courtroom, watching your trial. And I was present when you dropped through the scaffold. I have to say right out that I believe you deserved the sentence they gave you. You appeared to be a man born to hang.”
Blackjack felt offended. The man was contemptuous of him, but not so much that he would not use him. “Then why go to the trouble of gettin’ me out of it?”
“Because I saw that you are not a man who flinches easily. The task I have in mind is simple, but it requires a determined man who will not flinch or let soft feelings stay his hand.”
By the tailored suit, Blackjack made a wild guess that his benefactor might be a banker. He had known of a few who arranged the robbery of their own banks to cover up shortages, or simply for self-enrichment at the depositors’ expense. “You got a robbery that needs doin’?”
“No. I have a man who needs killing.”
Blackjack frowned. He had killed, but it was not a thing lightly undertaken. He said, “You could hire any thug who happened to drop off of the train. You wouldn’t have to go to all the trouble and expense of savin’ my neck.”
“But if such a man were identified and caught, he would gladly betray me to save himself from the hangman. In your case, you have the strongest possible incentive not to let yourself be captured. You’ve already felt the choking of a noose about your neck. You will do anything to avoid another.” The man poured Blackjack a drink. “Moreover, no witness could properly identify you. Everybody knows Blackjack Ketchum is dead.”
That made sense. “What’re you goin’ to pay me?”
“You’ve already been paid. I have bought you your life. Nevertheless, I will pay you three thousand dollars when you are done. That should get you at least a thousand miles from here before you stop for breath.”
Single robberies had netted Blackjack more money, but under the circumstances he decided it was not appropriate to quibble. At least he was not six feet under the ground. “I’ll do the job for you. Who is the hombre I’m supposed to kill?”
“His name is Wilson Evans. He’s a prosecuting attorney.”
Blackjack warmed to the notion. He had been at the mercy of more than one prosecuting attorney. He had lain awake many nights, dreaming of artful ways to help them shuffle off the mortal coil. Unfortunately, he had never had the opportunity to carry out any of these schemes. “I suppose this Evans is givin’ you trouble?”
“Let us just say that this man has shown far too much opposition to certain areas of my business. You see, I own this establishment and several others of similar nature. It is his fervent desire to see my businesses ruined and myself housed in the penitentiary at Canon City. I do not find that prospect appealing.”
Blackjack poured himself another drink without invitation. “Any special way you want the job done?”
“I am interested in the result, not the means. My only stipulation is that you do it thoroughly and elude capture. I would regret seeing you back on the scaffold.”
“Not half as much as I would.” The whiskey was not strong enough to shut off Blackjack’s terrifying memory of the noose tightening around his neck. It was a death he would not wish upon a sheep-killing dog. He asked, “Where will I find Evans, and how will I know him?”
The man gave Evans’s address to Blackjack and described his appearance. “He is tall, and he usually wears a black swallowtail coat and a black wool hat. I judge that he is about forty years old.”
“That probably describes a lot of people.”
“I would not advise your doing the deed in the heart of town. Too many law enforcement officers would be quick to respond. I would suggest catching him leaving home or returning there. You could be well on your way before anyone could organize an effective pursuit.”
“Home it is then.”
The man handed Blackjack a few greenbacks. “This is on account. You will receive the rest afterward. And one more thing: You still have the beard you wore on the scaffold. You would look considerably different without it.”
Regretfully Blackjack rubbed his chin. The beard had appealed to his vanity, but he could grow another when he was far enough away.
“I never did hear your name,” he said.
“No, you never did, and you will not. You may call me Lazarus, if you wish.”
“He’s the one got raised from the dead, ain’t he?”
“In this case, he is the one who raised you from the dead. Good night, Mr. Ketchum.”
Clean-shaven, Blackjack took a room in a cheap hotel away from the center of town and tried in vain for a good night’s sleep. He was haunted by a recurring dream which had him falling through the open trapdoor and choking to death at the end of the rope. He awoke wide-eyed and in a cold sweat.
Later, he caught his horse and took a ride up the street where Evans lived. He picked out a modest red-brick house with the number he had been given: 326. It stood next to a church. He studied it intensely, mentally picturing Evans coming out the front door, down the short steps, and into the dirt street, which would lead him a few short blocks to the town’s center. Blackjack could waylay him anywhere along the route, though he had rather do it as near to his home as possible. A vacant lot on the other side of the church would afford him quick passage off the street and out into an undeveloped area, where he could lose himself in a stand of timber. By the time pursuit could be organized, he should be well ahead of it.
He would have to put in several days of hard travel when this job was over. He decided to give himself and his horse a day of rest before he got the town all stirred up. He remained in the hotel room all day except for mealtimes. He found that he slept well on his second night in Trinidad. He arose early, had a large breakfast, and saddled his horse at the livery stable.
He had lost track of the days and had not realized that this was Sunday. Evans would not be likely to go to the courthouse, though Ketchum de
cided it was unlikely he would remain at home all day. Ketchum rode up the street and dismounted where he could watch the front of the small brick home. Before long, people began moving toward the church. After a time, someone opened the front door of the house he was watching. As the man who called himself Lazarus had said, Evans was wearing a black coat and a woolen hat. Carrying a Bible under his arm and walking with a cane, he stopped at the church steps and began greeting visitors as they arrived.
Blackjack realized with a start that this man was a minister. The house in which he lived must be the parsonage. He swore under his breath. Why all that nonsense Lazarus had told him about Evans being a prosecuting attorney?
He knew one thing for certain: He could not kill a minister. He was sure hell must have an especially hot corner reserved for men who committed a crime that serious. He mounted his horse and rode back to the Colorado Miner. Tying the animal behind the saloon, he tried the back door but found it locked. He threw a heavy shoulder against it and broke it open. No one was inside.
He had nothing but time. He could wait. After a while, he heard voices and heavy footsteps in the front of the building. The saloon had opened for business. Though he knew his pistol was loaded, he checked it again to be doubly certain. He heard someone walking toward the office from inside the saloon. He drew his pistol and sat with gaze focused intently on the door.
Lazarus stopped in surprise, seeing Blackjack sitting in his desk chair. He closed the door behind him and said testily, “I’ve heard no shooting, no commotion in the street. I have to assume that you have not yet fulfilled your agreement.”
“You told me Evans is a prosecuting attorney. Turns out you lied. He’s a preacher. I never agreed to shoot no preacher.”
“I told you that because I thought you might be hesitant about killing a man of the cloth, whereas you should have no qualms about a prosecutor. This man has influenced much of the town against me and cost me considerable business. His being a minister makes no difference. He is mortal like the rest of us. All his prayers and preachments will not save him from one well-placed bullet.”
Lost Trails Page 22