An Old-Fashioned Affair
Never interrupt your enemy while he is making a mistake ~ Napoleon.
It was a dark and stormy night—one of the worst thunderstorms we'd seen in years—when Kid Curry held up the stage from Bright River and killed the shotgun messenger.
Ten years ago, or even five, there'd have been a lynching as soon the posse brought him in, because Dave Bayless was a local man, born and raised in Drury Springs, and him and his sweet-faced little wife had a baby on the way. As it was, feelings ran high against the Kid, and it began to look like Sheriff Toomey might not be able to guarantee his prisoner's safety. When Judd Barnes suggested that a speedy trial and a public hanging were needed to keep the town from getting a reputation for being lawless and behind the times, we listened to him. Barnes was big on progress.
And he had a stake in the matter, since he was the bank manager and his depositors lost twenty thousand dollars in the holdup. Barnes was also the only passenger on the stage that night, and it was his testimony, along with driver Johnny Manning's, that clinched the guilty verdict. Johnny rode out with the posse after he brought the stage back into Drury Springs with Dave's body and with Barnes, wounded in the arm and almost too weak to walk from loss of blood. They cut the Kid's trail right where Johnny said it would be, and took him by surprise while he was bedded down for the night.
It was kind of strange why a notorious outlaw and the fastest draw west of Dodge would pull such a two-bit gunny's trick, but Barnes told us there'd been talk in banking circles that the Kid and his partner, the equally notorious Hannibal Heyes, had split up. It was common knowledge that Heyes was the mastermind who planned all their successful robberies, while Curry was just a hothead with an itchy trigger finger that Heyes kept around to watch his back. On his own and without his wily partner to do his thinking for him, it looked like the Kid's luck was finally played out.
Convicted? Well, I should hope so. The Kid stood pat, denied everything, and wouldn't tell where he hid the money. The jury wasn't out twenty minutes. Judge Emory pronounced the death sentence and asked if the prisoner had anything to say before they took him back to jail.
"Only this, Judge. You all know I got a twenty year prison sentence waitin' on me back in Wyoming. But you also know that in all the banks and trains I robbed, I never shot anybody. Why would I risk hangin' by murderin' a man in cold blood in front of two witnesses?" He stood up straight and tall when he said it and his blue eyes met Emory's without flinching.
"Whoever killed Dave Bayless has twenty thousand dollars of this town's money. You should be out looking for him."
When Johnny Manning was found in the alley behind the 'Western Star' with his head caved in the morning after the trial, nobody thought anything about it. Johnny had a short fuse and a powerful thirst, which is a bad combination when you're drinking in a saloon full of hard-fisted, hot-tempered cowboys. Too, Johnny wasn't what you would call a solid citizen—there were a few run-ins with the law in his younger days, and he used to ride with a tough bunch. The Kid's lawyer, who was from out of town and awful close-mouthed about who was paying him, tried to make something out of that at the trial. But even a smart city lawyer couldn't talk away Barnes' evidence, or the Kid's reputation. A man doesn't earn a ten thousand dollar price on his head from being a Sunday-school teacher.
The trial was Friday, and the hanging was scheduled for Tuesday week. It was going to be the first ever legal hanging in Drury Springs, and the town council ante'd up to have a real gallows built. Folks from the ranches all around were planning to attend, and the volunteer fire department band started practicing for the parade that would take place before the hanging, and the dance and barbecue afterwards. The girls down on River Street even announced they would be closing down operations for a couple of hours on Tuesday, as a sign of respect. Seems a couple of them knew the Kid, professionally speaking, you might say. And women like that do have a soft spot for a good-looking bad man.
"It's kind of a shame," Pappy Call remarked. Pappy was older than the first six feet of dirt, but still tough enough to be one of Toomey's deputies. "A man like Kid Curry would do to ride the river with, back in the old days. In fact, if we was to have another Injun attack, I'd ruther have him beside me than most of the fellers in this town."
Which no-one disagreed with. The Kid was plenty salty, but there was no living doubt he was guilty, and at one o'clock Tuesday afternoon, with the entire county there to watch, he was going to pay the price for his crimes. Time had marched on and left him and his kind in the dust. Those killing days were over, gone just like the lynching days, and the West was now being run by civilized men, men like, well…Judd Barnes.
Every town's got a first family, and in Drury Springs it was the Robertsons. They came out right after the War and over the years old Mr. Robertson built up holdings that included half the real estate in town as well as interests in the bank, the express company, and one of the biggest ranches in the county. When he passed on, his daughter Adelaide took the reins and most people allowed as how she was a chip off the old block. She even had a seat on the town council, over the objections of some—Barnes being one of them—that it made Drury Springs look bad, letting a woman vote on town business.
Barnes held a mighty different opinion of Miss Addie when he first arrived in town, three or four years ago, and back then he managed to find lots of reasons to call at the big house at the end of Front Street. Of course, town gossip held that Barnes was looking for a rich wife and at forty Miss Addie was still a fine-looking woman.
She was no fool, either, and she knew that folks were talking. After a while Barnes saw that couldn't finagle his way into her good graces and he quit trying. Of course, from then on he never had a civil word to say about her, even though she owned thirty-seven percent of the bank and could have gotten him fired. For her part, most of the time Miss Addie seemed to ignore the fact that Barnes breathed the same air she did. I think that's what made him maddest.
Miss Addie didn't come to the trial, so we were surprised when she walked int Judge Emory's office on Saturday afternoon while everyone was sitting around talking about the upcoming festivities. She had a stranger with her, a pleasant young fellow named Rembacker, dark and kind of quiet but smart-looking. She introduced him as Kansas man, travelling on business for some of Miss Addie's relatives back in Wichita, and he stood by respectfully while she spoke to us.
"Terrible storm last week, wasn't it?" she began, without preliminaries. "A real gullywasher. I was on my way back from Bright River myself that night, and we had to pull over. Even after the rain let up it stayed cloudy and there was no moon. Buddy was saying it was a miracle we didn't wind up in the ditch." Buddy Haynes being the old-timer she sometimes hired to drive her around in the Robertson buggy.
We all murmured in agreement and one or two remarks were made about the weather, but Miss Addie was not one for idle conversation. She nodded to George Toomey. "Too bad Johnny Manning's dead. I'd like to ask him how he got such a good look at Dave's killer when it was so dark you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. "
Toomey straightened up and looked annoyed, as usual when Miss Addie was around. The whole town knew what Miss Addie thought of the sheriff, which was along the general lines of him not being able to find his hip pocket with both hands if his pants were on fire. She turned to Barnes. "I understand the bank examiners are due next month, Mr. Barnes."
His face turned a little pale.
"Let me know when they're done. I'd like to see their report." And then she and Rembacker went away together, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind them.
Sunday was pretty quiet, all things considered. The gallows weren't finished, but the crew knocked off, feeling it wasn't quite right to be building something to hang a man from on the Lord's Day. People were already starting to arrive in town, some of them camping out on the outskirts waiting for the big doings on Tuesday, and the saloons did a lot of business.
Early Monday morning Miss Addie drove up to Sheriff Toomey's office with Rembacker, and they brought Trixie DuBois along. Now, Trixie was a soiled dove who rented one of the shacks down on River Street and was known to be Johnny Manning's girl. There wasn't a respectable woman in town that would have been seen within thirty feet of her, but you have to understand Miss Addie was a law unto herself in that as in most things. Trixie was carrying a Spanish guitar and you could tell she'd been crying.
"Sheriff!" called Miss Addie. "This young woman would like to see your prisoner. They're old friends."
"I brung the Kid my guitar," Trixie piped up. "Back when I knew him, he used to like playin' the guitar and singin', and I thought if I could give this to him he wouldn't have to listen to that bangin' and hammerin' while they're buildin' the gallows."
Toomey looked hard at Trixie. "I can't let nobody in without them being searched, first. " He stopped, and his face turned red.
"Oh for pity's sake, George," snapped Miss Addie. "I'll do it. You can watch me."
Trixie had on a shabby old satin dress and according to what Pappy told us later, not much in the way of underclothing. Miss Addie started at the top and had worked her way down to Trixie's shoes when she suddenly stopped and pulled out a short metal file that was laced under the tongue of the left one.
"Oh, Trixie," she said regretfully.
"You know I should arrest you right now, Trixie," Toomey growled at her, and the girl burst into tears. "And I sure can't let you go back there."
"Can you at least give the poor man the guitar, George?" asked Miss Addie, over Trixie's wailing.
"Seems a reasonable request, Sheriff," Rembacker spoke up. He had a sharp, clear voice and it carried. "It might be pleasant for him, playing the guitar in private."
Toomey handed it to Pappy and jerked his head back towards the cells. "Go on, take it to him." And in a few minutes the Kid could be heard strumming away. It didn't sound very good, but then maybe he was out of practice.
In the office, Trixie was still crying her eyes out and Miss Addie was talking to Toomey.
"You need to come over to Judge Emory's with me," she said. "Trixie has something to say and you of all people should hear it." She walked out without waiting to see if anyone was following.
That was just like Miss Addie; when she spoke, people obeyed. If she'd been born a boy, during the War she'd have commanded a regiment, at least. They trailed after her, Sheriff Toomey looking mad, Rembacker all smooth-faced and polite, Trixie bawling and Pappy bringing up the rear wearing a funny kind of grin. A few of us were there in the Judge's office when they came in.
"Walt," she said to the judge, "when that trial was going on, I didn't stick my nose in because I assumed that for once George had arrested the right man. It wasn't until I heard about the prisoner's final statement that it occurred to me we were barking up the wrong tree. Mr. Rembacker, here," and she nodded at the young man, "agreed with me. We started asking questions around town and the answers we got shot the case full of holes big enough to drive the Bright River stage through." She pushed a chair forward.
"Sit down, Trixie!"
Trixie sat, gulped, and turned big sad eyes on Judge Emory. "He didn't do it, Judge. He couldn't of. He ain't that kind. "
"It's real good of you to stick up for your friend, Miss DuBois, and I reckon he appreciates it," Rembacker said coaxingly. "But why don't you tell the judge what you told me and Miss Addie."
"I met him in Tucson. I was keepin' company with a gambler what promised to marry me, but when I took sick and had to quit workin' he run off with all my money an' left me there. I was flat busted an' the Kid staked me an' never asked for nothin' back, not even…" Trixie paused and blushed, which surprised us, on account of it was Trixie. "So when I seen him in the 'Western Star' last week, I was so glad I went right up to say howdy."
"Did anyone else know that the Kid was in town?" Sheriff Toomey asked her.
Trixie sniffed and looked tearful. "Only Johnny. I didn't think it would matter 'cos I made him promise he wouldn't say nothin'. He just told this one friend of his, on account of he was so excited 'bout seein' Kid Curry in person."
Toomey and Pappy Call shot a glance at each other, turned around and headed out the door towards the bank.
"It could be," Judge Emory said slowly, "that we have been made damned fools of, gentlemen. And in light of this new evidence, I think a stay of execution is called for."
Gid Billings, who owned the general store, warned, "That ain't going to be a real popular decision, Judge. There's some people drove fifty miles just to see the hanging."
"Let's see what Pappy and George come up with," said the Judge. "If I have to, I've got time to rule on it first thing in the morning."
Except that next morning the bars were missing from the Kid's cell window, sawed off clean as a whistle, and he was gone. So was that nice Mr. Rembacker who'd been staying with Miss Addie, and so were a couple of her best saddle horses. Sheriff Toomey, who wasn't as big a fool as Miss Addie thought, put two and two together and it added up to Hannibal Heyes.
Nobody blamed Miss Addie, of course. She wasn't the only person in town who never suspected that the helpful young man from Wichita was really the Kid's silver-tongued partner. Of course, some folks were kind of glad to hear that Adelaide Robertson, who thought she was so smart, had the wool pulled over her eyes. They felt it served her right.
If Miss Addie was upset about being taken advantage of, we couldn't tell. She went on about her business same as always, although Buddy Haynes said that for a week or two, he would catch her smiling for no reason.
Nobody was sorry when Trixie DuBois turned up missing, either. Sure, she helped Heyes smuggle that file to the Kid inside her guitar, but since she'd saved the town the embarrassment of executing the wrong man, we were pretty happy that she hadn't stuck around to be arrested. Somebody said she'd been seen Tuesday morning at the station in Bright River, all rigged out in a new travelling outfit and boarding the train to Albuquerque, but since Trixie never had two dollars to her name that had to be a mistake. No, those outlaws must have taken her with them when they lit out.
Of course the posse couldn't collect the reward on the Kid, but since the twenty thousand dollars that was supposed to be missing from the holdup was found at Barnes' place, the town still came out ahead. So we celebrated with the biggest party in the history of Drury Springs. The volunteer fire department band played all night and there was dancing and everybody had a good time. The folks that had come all the way into town for the hanging weren't disappointed, either. It may have been old-fashioned, and not strictly legal, but we hung Judd Barnes.