Río Chama, page 18
“Well, Senator?” Zech Stone was sitting in that buckboard, bracing himself with his old rifle while tapping his pipe against the wooden bench.
Cole shot an angry glance at the scout, then looked at the riders, at the woman, at the man, and finally up and down the road before staring at Zech Stone. “You owe me, Zech.”
Just like his name, the old scout’s face turned to stone.
“You men ride for my brand,” Cole said, his gaze locking on the eyes of each hired hand. “You ride my horses, eat my grub, sleep in my bunkhouse and line shacks. You work my cattle. You live off my land. You’re my men. Anybody care to argue with me? That’s good.”
He lifted the book, laughed, and tossed it at the silent man’s feet. “So you like Dickens.” He looked down upon the silent man. “That’s a good thing. Maybe you’ll recollect these words . . . ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’ I think that’s right. ‘It is a far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.’” He laughed again. “You know, when I first read that, I thought Sydney Carton was the biggest fool who ever lived.” He shook his head, laughing harder. “Imagine. A man willing to trade places with a guy about to get his head chopped off. But that’s kind of what you’re going to do, Silent Man. And I’ll borrow a little twist from your pal Mister Dumas.” He whirled to face Stone.
“Zech, you deliver him to Luke Murphey. You tell Luke to keep him in the T.A. jail. No visitors. No priest. Nothing! But then you get the word out that you’ve brung in Jeremiah. And tomorrow . . .”—his grin widened—“tomorrow, my son hangs. Just like he was supposed to do. Maybe that’ll pacify them lazy-ass Mexicans.”
“You’re mad!” Fiery, the redhead was. Looked like she was about to rip out Cole’s heart, and undoubtedly would have tried if Davenport hadn’t held her back.
Mad? Maybe he was. Yet it seemed a good plan. A tad melodramatic, but the editors loved those kinds of stories these days. Newspapers all across the country would print this article. Hooded because of all his shame, Jeremiah Cole went to the gallows. He dropped through the trap door while his father, the powerful territorial senator, watched from the streets. Roman Cole was a man of justice, the papers would write. He witnessed his own son’s execution for the worst crime in history. That’s how much Senator Roman Cole supported the law. Yeah, that might land him a few extra votes in the next election. That might make those damned Mexicans think a little better of him. That might, at last, end all of those headaches regarding the Tierra Amarilla Land Grant.
And Jeremiah? Well, he’d have to spend the rest of his life in Montana. Roman Cole could never see his son again. He sighed. He could live with that. The boy wasn’t much of a son, anyway.
Of course, there would be rumors. The hood would lead to stories, suspicions that someone had hanged in Jeremiah’s place. But Roman Cole would produce the coroner’s report, the county sheriff’s report, and he’d point to the tombstone behind his house. Too bad, he thought, that this silent man was so stubborn. Roman Cole would always wonder who was really buried in that grave.
“What about her?”
Matt Denton pointed at the redhead.
Cole took a deep breath. Everything now depended on his riders. “Matt,” he said. He eyed Davenport. “Big Boy. The law never has to know that you were at Los Pinos with Jeremiah. I’ve protected you all this time, and I’ll keep on protecting you. And the others.”
He let those words sink in. Denton and Davenport understood.
“You take her into the woods. Do what you want, but you cut her throat. And you bury her, deep. On my land.”
A horse snorted. The only sound.
“You do that, boys,” he said, looking up at Stone, making sure. “You do that, and you never have to worry about having your neck stretched. You do this, and you’ll find a nice bonus for every man jack one of you come Christmas. And for every Christmas to come as long as you’re riding Triangle C horses, and nursing Triangle C beef.”
Slowly he walked to his horse, and mounted the bay. “But cross me,” he warned. “Get greedy. And you’ll be wishing you was buried with her. And him.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
From the Northwest New Mexican,
Chama, New Mexico Territory,
Friday, May 13, 1898
Word was received in this office Thursday evening, just as we prepared our Potter Press to print today’s edition, that the condemned priest-slayer, Jeremiah Cole, lone surviving son of Senator Roman Cole of this valley, had been turned over into the hands of Sheriff L. Murphey, and, thusly, the long-awaited execution is to be held this morning, Friday the 13th, outside the courthouse in Tierra Amarilla, our somnolent, neighboring burg that somehow serves as county seat.
Your diligent editor quickly dispatched her trustworthy correspondent, R. Fox, to T.A. in an attempt to interview the sheriff, and the prisoner, and indeed confirm those reports. Yet long before the mare rented from our local livery man, Tom Richards, carried Mr. Fox to T.A. and back, the news had been confirmed, loudly.
Church bells are ringing in Chama this night, and in Parkview as well. Church bells are ringing in our county seat, in Cribbenville, and across the Chama Valley. Church bells, as far as we can ascertain, are ringing on the streets of glory.
The execution will be the first—and let us pray the last—in our fair county since Perfecto Padilla and Robert Torres were sent to face their Redeemer almost three years ago. It might be recalled that the former villain was so petrified, the deputy sheriffs had to hold him up after he was placed over the trap door. Perhaps a similar fate will befall the newly condemned prisoner before he is dropped into Eternity.
Earlier this week, the editor had the chance to visit the scaffold, built of the sturdiest pine and oak from the Cole Lumber Company of this county, owned by the senator whose son committed the most heinous crime in memory.
The trap door is about three-by-four feet, braced into position by a piece of timber that is hinged in the center. A wire runs from the brace around a pulley and up to the platform, connected to the release mechanism, which is within easy reach from near the condemned man’s platform. When the lever is pulled, the brace falls, opening the door, and the killer becomes the killed.
Sheriff Murphey, who says he will spring the trap himself on the killer Cole, kindly demonstrated the action of the gallows scaffold earlier this week for this editor, using a hundred-pound potato sack supplied by the nearest mercantile in Tierra Amarilla. A few hours later, a Chama businessman snickered at the editor’s report of how well the scaffold will operate, saying: “That sack’s the only thing that’ll ever drop from that bit of lumber. Waste of taxpayers’ money.”
Yet, providing some unforeseen happenstance, the Chama doubter will no doubt become a believer today between the hours of 8:00 and noon.
Regarding the rope, Sheriff Murphey assured the editor that it is pure manila, incredibly strong, having been imported from St. Louis, Missouri, where murder and hangings are common. The “peculiar tie” of coiled rope will be tightened over Jeremiah Cole’s head, with the large knot positioned upon the doomed murderer’s jaw. Thus, the sheriff says, when the murderer drops through the trap door, he is thrust to one side in a twist that snaps the spinal vertebrae. Death is instantaneous, and while it is painless, we can assure the condemned slayer of Father Juan Vasco at Los Pinos that the fires of Hades are anything but painless.
It should be noted that although the gallows platform has been finished, the compound that was to enclose the execution site, per the presiding judge’s and eventually the Supreme Court’s decision, remains unfinished. Only two of the four walls have been erected, which had led many citizens to believe that no one would ever test the rope. Asked for an explanation, Sheriff Murphey blamed the weather, it being a wet and cold spring, the lack of carpenters in the area willing to work for what the county pays, and the fact that: “It would be a shame if not everyone had a chance to see the show.”
While still eagerly awaiting the return of Mr. Fox from Tierra Amarilla, we learned more news last night, as a bulletin, in the human form of one of our faithful gossipers, shot through the office doors of the Northwest New Mexican to inform us that our senator, face grim, had checked into the High Mountains Hotel, so the editor told our tramp printer to wait until she returned from an attempt to obtain an interview and ascertain the truth of the reports.
Within twenty minutes, the editor had returned, having found a tired Senator Cole alone at a table in the hotel restaurant, fingering his cup of coffee, and looking completely devoid of hope. A polite request for a moment of his time was waved off, and he sighed heavily, saying: “Can’t you leave a man alone on the eve of his son’s execution? I tried to raise the boy right. He was just wrong, and wrong-headed.”
“There were reports,” the editor said, “that you did everything in your power to keep him from the law of the land.”
“He’s in jail, isn’t he?” the senator replied. “He wasn’t brought in to Luke Murphey by any lawman, or any hired killer. He was brought in by Colonel Zechariah Stone, a man of my employ, a man whose reputation is not stained with shame. Could you say that of a man like Britton Wade?”
Wade, of course, is the shootist of some renown who was said to have kidnapped Cole from the tombs of the jail in the territory’s capital, and was attempting to bring him to Río Arriba County. The senator’s declaration that Colonel Stone had done the deed instead surprised all of those—this journalist included—in the dining hall at that time. Waiters stopped pouring drinks, and hungry diners silently held forks and knives as if frozen in time, for a chance to catch another important bit of news.
Another question was formed, but the senator said: “That’s all I have to say. Leave me alone.” The editor was then quickly escorted out of the restaurant by the restaurant manager, where she promptly returned to the Northwest New Mexican offices.
An hour later, when we were about to give up hope of putting the finishing touches and most important facts on this article, hoofs sounded in our street, and, moments later, Mr. Fox dashed through the doors, waving his notebook, yelling: “It’s all true!”
“Is Jeremiah Cole in jail?” it was asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you interview him?”
“No. The sheriff would not permit it. No one has been able to see him, not even loved ones or members of the clergy.”
“What is the state of Tierra Amarilla?”
“There is much anxiety. Many Mexicans in that village fear reprisal from the powerful Senator Cole if his son is hanged. Others believe riders from the senator’s ranch will ride into Tierra Amarilla in an attempt to rescue his young son from the hangman’s noose. Yet Sheriff Murphey dismisses such trepidation as the terrors of children.”
The sheriff, Mr. Fox reported, pointed out the fact that dozens of buffalo soldiers from the 9th Cavalry, stationed at Fort Lewis, Colorado, remain in Tierra Amarilla and Chama as a result of the recent flight of some Apache males from the Jicarilla reserve, and that he and his deputies have managed to keep the peace in the county “no matter what your newspaper keeps on writing.”
Peace will be maintained, the sheriff tells Mr. Fox, and the execution will proceed as prescribed.
An inquiry about the delivery of the condemned killer led R. Fox to the cantina known as Pedro’s Place about ten doors down from the courthouse in Tierra Amarilla. A buckboard was found in front of the dingy dram shop, and Mr. Fox went inside, finding Colonel Zechariah Stone alone, leaning on the bar alongside his crutches.
The gray-haired colonel, it is not needed to report, has been a fixture in this territory for decades, having helped bring in killers of all kinds—white men, red savages, bears, mountain lions, and Confederate Rebels from the malevolent state of Texas.
R. Fox reports the interview with Colonel Stone as follows:
Fox: “Colonel, I am a correspondent for the Northwest New Mexican.”
Stone: “I’m drinking. Alone.”
Fox: “Well, you’re not alone. I see a dog at your feet, sir.”
The dog, as if responding unfavorably to the joke, growled. So did Colonel Stone.
Fox: “Sheriff Murphey tells me that you brought in Jeremiah Cole.”
Stone: “That’s what people say.”
Fox: “Where did you find him? How did you find him?”
Stone: “Get out.”
Fox: “Sir, you are a testament to courage. You are one of the most notable figures in the territory alongside Pat Garrett, slayer of Billy the Kid, and Kit Carson, the great scout and soldier. What you have done ranks alongside the heroics of Odysseus, Samson, David, George Washington, and General Grant. People had lost hope, no longer believed in the law, but now, thanks to you, when Jeremiah Cole atones for his sins in the morning . . .”
Stone: “I’m going to drink this scamper juice.”
Colonel Stone held up a tumbler about half filled with the smelly liquid.
Stone: “When I finish it, if there’s anyone in this whoop-up except my dog, me, and Pedro yonder, that person is going to get his *** ripped off by Ol’ Griz, his ears pinned back by me, and his ***, or what’s left of it, kicked all the way to Antonito.”
The German shepherd rose to its feet, hair raised, revealing canine teeth that would chill all mortal men.
Stone: “And you best be forewarned that I drink real fast.”
The interview ended, R. Fox left the saloon before the tequila was consumed. He attempted once more to land an interview with the condemned killer, but, denied a final time, he mounted his mare, and galloped back to Chama.
Fortified by coffee, we surmise that Colonel Stone, an old compatriot of Senator Cole, was saddened by this job, having to choose between justice and friendship.
Colonel Stone, we hereby declare your choice was the right one, the moral one, the only one, and we will request that the governor honor you for your devotion to duty.
There is no need to remind readers of the callous crime for which Jeremiah Cole must pay with his life. No one will ever forget what transpired at Los Pinos, and no one should. But this chapter will finally close.
Now, the citizens of Río Arriba County and seekers of justice await the promise of tomorrow, and wait for these orders from our Supreme Court to be carried out:
“On Friday, the 13th day of May, 1898, between the hours of 8 in the forenoon and noon of said day, within an enclosure secured from public view, in the presence of a sufficient number of witnesses to attest the execution of the judgment, in an area near the jail and courthouse in the village of Tierra Amarilla in the County of Río Arriba and the Territory of New Mexico, the said plaintiff, named Jeremiah Cole, shall be taken by the sheriff of said county, or other designated peace officers, and by him be hanged by the neck until he is dead, dead, dead.”
It is customary to add “May God have mercy on his soul.” Due to the circumstances of the criminal, unholy act, however, we will abstain from this custom.
Chapter Twenty-Four
What, he wondered, must Britton Wade think of him now?
Wade would have faced death the way he faced life, calmly, stubbornly, but Clint Paden didn’t have that kind of guts. He kicked, bit, fought, yelled in the Tierra Amarilla jail when the sheriff and his deputies came for him. He wasn’t about to trade places with a condemned man. He wasn’t about to be the pawn of some insane rancher and politician. They threw him to the ground. He cursed, spit, roared. Someone grabbed a handful of hair, jerked his head off the floor, slammed it into the stones. Again. Again. Until Paden couldn’t fight them off anymore.
The deputies—he had lost count of how many, maybe a half dozen—pinned his arms behind his back. The metal handcuffs were cold against his skin, and his assailants tightened the bracelets until the iron bit into his skin. A rolled bandanna slipped into his mouth, was jerked back, almost breaking his front teeth. The knot someone tied pulled his hair. Finding strength from somewhere inside him, Paden fought the gag as a horse might struggle against a bit, until he gagged. Once they hoisted him to his feet, someone threw a burlap bag over his head.
He was sweating. Could barely breathe.
“Let’s get moving, me lads.” He recognized the Irish accent of the county sheriff. A Cole man.
“Hell, it ain’t but six-fifteen. The hanging ain’t . . .”
“Don’t be a damned fool. We go now!”
The door opened. He heard it squeak, felt the coolness of the morning air. Suddenly he pulled away from those holding him, stumbled blindly, wanting to scream. Heading for the breeze. Something slammed into his side—a man—and rammed him against the adobe wall. His nose bled freely.
“Try that again, and we drag you out. Hang you while you’re out cold.” The sheriff was talking, his teeth clenched, the smell of whiskey permeating the hot burlap. “Criminy, lad, be a man. Don’t show your Maker how yellow you are.”
They shoved him again. Men holding his arms. Dragging his manacled feet. Chains rattled as they moved onto the streets of Tierra Amarilla.
He couldn’t see through the sack, and sweat burned his eyes, yet he could hear.
“Hell’s fire,” the sheriff said.
“Quite the turnout,” a deputy muttered.
“And more’s coming.”
Traces jingled, and hoofs sounded. A wagon passed by them, kicking up dust.
“Somebody’s makin’ hisself a profit in Chama,” a deputy said. “Bringin’ folks right off the trains and hotels in an omnibus. Yonder comes another.”
“Move!” the sheriff barked. “Quickly. Let’s end this before there’s more people.”
The metallic click told him that a pistol was being cocked. Then another. They kept walking. At first he heard music, singing, a guitar, maybe—could it be?—a harp, but as they moved down the dusty street, the music faded. He felt the presence of the people as he passed them. Some prayed. Some gasped. Some, he knew, just stared. He could picture their faces, see them crossing themselves as the sheriff and his men led this monster to the gallows.
