A Hanging at Cinder Bottom (2 page)

“They’ll be ready.”

The two of them listened to the condemned woman sing of oiled bedsprings and steeple dicks and the devil as the man in the moon. Her voice was high and sweet.

“Last lullaby she’ll ever croon,” the chief said. He stepped outside again.

In the street, a Chinese man in a stovepipe hat walked along bent, a flat-top trunk on his back. He nearly lost his footing in the mud, then continued until he was square in front of the jailhouse. A leather strap secured the heavy trunk, strung bandolier-style across his chest. He sat down careful and undid himself. Then he stood and pushed the long box onto its side, kicking mud at the mass of ankles passing by. He rigged a tarpaulin to a telegraph pole in order to keep dry. He took off his slicker. His tan three-piece suit was dry. He undid the trunk’s latches, hefted out his broken-down Punch and Judy booth, and proceeded to erect it around himself where he stood. It took no more than a minute. Head-high and striped red and white, a curtain up top framed in whittled driftwood to frighten and delight.

The rain slowed. A woman with a baby on her hip stopped to watch, and then a young man did the same. So too did a drunkard with bleared eye and clumsy foot. “What is that contraption?” the drunkard asked, and, as if to answer, a voice erupted from inside the bright booth.

“Good Men and Madames of Keystone!” The greeting cut through the drizzle like a horn. More stopped and waited to be entertained. The street clogged and the rain picked up again. Umbrellas deployed. “I shall send round my bottler,” the voice went on, “and if you’ll put a coin in the hat, the Great Professor Verjo will furnish you a show!” The Chinese man emerged from the booth and twirled his hat from his head. He maintained a scalp-lock fashion, like an Iroquois warrior, a singular
black rope of hair falling to the small of his back, the rest of his head kept bare by straight razor. “Right here, right here,” he called, hat brim upturned and waiting on compensation. A nickel hit the bottom, then another. The people were confused by him. Some had never known a Chinese man. Those from Keystone knew only Mr. Wan, and he had never worn a vest-suit in his life. One woman asked another, “Is he Injun or Chinaman?” They wanted to know how he spoke good English. The man calling himself Professor Verjo had long since grown accustomed to such folk, and he was predisposed to answer any question on his origins. He told the truth. He was born in a freight yard at Los Angeles, California.

In front of the Busy Bee Restaurant, a jewelry peddler heard the Punch and Judy man’s call. The peddler stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled so loud that the woman regarding his wares stumbled back. He banged his stand with a cow’s bell and called, “Here, here is where your money is wise! Gold watch-chains! Silverware!”

Another man on Bridge Street stuck a fist of rolled paper high over his head and waved. He called, “Only true confession of Goldie and Abe! Here are the words of the Kid and the Queen! The rest are forgeries! Here’s your confession!”

The calls carried through the open jailhouse door, down the narrow hall, and into the cells of the condemned man and woman. Abe Baach ceased his humming. He looked upon his bare feet and smiled and spoke to himself. “That’s it boys,” he said, quiet. “Run em in and run em out.”

Goldie Toothman called out a high note and danced a circle around the drain hole.

Their day had come.

In the street, the Punch and Judy man whipped his hook-nosed puppets side to side on their stage above his head, his movements furious and precise. Punch was not Punch on this day, and Judy was not Judy. “How can they string us up Abe, oh how?” she sobbed, her little wooden hands against her red-circled cheeks. “Don’t you know by now Goldie,” the puppet man answered, “Old Scratch is in Rutherford’s skin.” And with that, they dropped behind the striped curtain, and in their place the red devil appeared. He was not sanded smooth like them. His jawbones were jagged, his paint job ragged. From each dull horn hung a kite-string noose. His head swiveled slow, surveying the crowd. They waited. They were quiet. The red devil bowed and the nooses swung like earrings. He straightened and said, “Let em dangle.”

Some in the crowd clapped their hands and whistled. Others moved on repulsed.

Inside, Officer Reed walked into the hall with his arms full. He toted two covered pans balanced atop a stack of pressed clothes. Abe and Goldie had ordered the same last meal—fried chicken, cornbread, and pinto beans. In Reed’s pockets, their morning whiskey ration chimed, pint bottle clacking shot glasses. He carried triple portions on account of the unique circumstances.

They’d quit their music-making.

There was a sheen on the stone hallway floor. Reed watched the pans tremble on the stack he hefted. He stopped in front of cell one and excused the tall officer who’d been on watch there for three hours. The man was tired, but he said he’d just as soon stay. “I’ve got used to the hummin and singin,” he said, “and I can watch him with one eye shut.” He popped a glass eye from its socket and held it out while shutting his other one tight.

When Reed saw that Abe was naked, he turned his back and set down gingerly his stack.

When he slid the suitclothes through the bars, he kept his eyes on his boots.

Abe said not a word, but took his pressed goods and retreated to the corner. He put on his fresh underclothes. He watched Reed pour a swallow of whiskey and set it on the food ledge where his uncovered chicken steamed. “Thank you,” he said. “And maybe a boiled egg if they’re ready?”

Reed looked him in the eyes and nodded his head. Then he turned away and bent to regather Goldie’s stack. He started down the hall and then stopped. “Preachers is here,” he said. “I can bring them to you.”

Abe had stepped to the food ledge. He breathed the air of his chicken and said, “By all means.”

Reed was clenched tight as he came upon Goldie’s cell. When he saw that she too was naked, he did not turn his back to set down the stack. And when he slid her dress through the bars, he did not look at his boots.

She stood with her arms crossed under her breasts. She was still-balanced on one foot. “Morning sunshine,” she said.

From down the hall, the tall officer called, “Reed, don’t you look too long. She always up to somethin.”

At half past ten, chief Rutherford again stood out front of the jail, this time atop a stack of upturned tomato crates. Such a stack was necessary for a man of short stature. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he hollered. The crowd didn’t listen. “Ladies—” The thin wood split beneath him and he broke through all three crates, clear to the porch boards, so that he was boxed in to the waist. The short drop had caused him to lose his stomach, and for a moment, he considered the long drop awaiting the condemned. What must it be like, he wondered, to free-fall through a door such as that.

The Punch and Judy man ate an apple on break between shows. He was next to the chief as he fell. He stifled a laugh and helped the man to his feet, lifting him at the waist until Rutherford slapped at his hands. A little girl had seen too, and she didn’t stifle her own laugh, and she pointed at the lawman where he stood, his face having lost its color. The chief kicked at the splintered wood, regained his composure, and called out: “Ladies and gentlemen, this here hangin is about to come off. We’ll start over to the site shortly, and if you want a place to see from, you had better go now.” He pointed downriver toward Cinder Bottom, where the hasty gallows stood high. He was nervous. A man had told him that word could go as wide as the governor that very morning.

At eleven, Rutherford walked past the condemned without looking at them. He threw open the door at the end of the jail’s hall and stepped into the embalming room. “I’m liable to faint if I don’t get them eggs,” he said. Taffy Reed sat on an iron stool and read the newspaper. He pointed to the big steel table, where he’d laid out a soup-plate of a hardboiled dozen.

At a quarter to noon, lawmen toting repeating rifles cleared a path, and two open box wagons rode up to the jail’s side door, a black coffin centered on each. Behind them was a long-top surrey. Most of the crowd had started for the gallows, but some remained. They watched the big door swing open, and there stood Abe Baach beside chief Rutherford. The lawman’s full height, upon first sight, marked him a boy next to the condemned, though Rutherford was nearly twice his age. Abe was bolt straight in shined shoes and three-piece suit. He wore a high collar and a fine silk necktie. No expression on his face.

“My Lord that fellow is handsome,” one woman said.

His hands were shackled in the front, and his steps into the wagon were short and measured for the ankle cuffs. He sat down on the coffin with the chief on one side and a portly preacher on the other. The driver nudged the big bay forward, and the second wagon fell in.

Officer Reed appeared in the doorway, Goldie Toothman’s elbow gripped loose in his hand. She’d gotten her plaid dress in line and her hair tidied. The wrist shackles
rode tight against purple velvet cuffs. Her eyes were shut. She sang in a whisper.

Reed and the skinny preacher guided her to the coffin bench. She sat down slow. Men astride horses regarded her movements, her magnificent shape, the fine hue of high-cheek skin. The big, beautiful assemblage of her up-tied hair. They looked on with lust in their eyes despite their wives, who rode behind them in the same saddle, pressed uncomfortable against stiff belts and gun grips.

The second driver lashed the haunches of the big black horse, and the wheels spit mud as they pulled away from the jailhouse. The surrey fell in behind. It picked up four lawmen, two reporters, and the court stenographer.

The wind shifted, and thick ash from the coke ovens on the hill began to fall. Light rain started and stopped. The procession was relatively quiet, save for the street peddler calls and the barkers beckoning folks to the three shell tables. In an alley, men were shooting dice. One called, “Come you seven, come eleven!”

Abe Baach smiled where he sat.

Next to him, the portly preacher started up. He shouted, “The Savior comes and walks with me, and sweet communion here have we.” The skinny preacher in the wagon behind raised his face to the heavens, and they God-called in unison. When Abe could take it no more, he lifted his shackled hands from his lap, sprung his elbows, and swiveled at the hips, knocking the preacher from the coffin and
the wagon too. It was a mighty blow that sent him circling, his backside to the sky before he landed on his belly in the mud. It took his wind from him. Some gasped. Others had a laugh. Two onlookers came to his aid, and when they rolled him to his side, a muddy crater he’d left behind.

The driver held up the horses, but Rutherford said move on. He’d stood from the coffin and put his colossal revolver to Abe’s head. “This road is full a ruts,” he told him, “and my finger’s inside the guard.”

Abe shouted at him: “Well go on Admiral Dot and squeeze it!”

Goldie had opened her eyes long enough to see the gun at Abe’s head, and when she shut them again, she gathered her air and coiled herself and let out a war cry so full as to ring the ears of the dead. It set the skinny preacher’s arm hair on end. It panicked the breath of officer Reed, and it ceased the barking of those hawking corn salve and silver and fixed games of chance.

Rutherford grit his teeth and told the driver to see to his buggy whip.

Abe sat on his coffin and swayed in time with the rusted wagon springs. His head knocked the barrel of the long short gun, but he did not much feel it. His ears caught the echo of his woman’s din, but he did not much hear it. His eyes looked ahead to the waiting gallows, but he did not much see it.

The people had amassed there, four thousand strong. Most had traveled from Mingo or from Mercer. They’d
caught wind the day before and made haste to see the show. They stood upon a plot northeast of Elkhorn Creek, a flat patch where a house of ill fame had once held sway as the unofficial boundary to Cinder Bottom, Keystone’s red-light district. Now the land had been carved and leveled by seventeen mule teams in preparation for a new switchout and tipple. The people filled it up and stood on their wagons. They covered the surrounding hillsides, slipping and lending one another a hand. They waited fifty deep in line for hot roasted peanuts at five cents a bag, and they pressed against the barbed wire fence that circled the scaffold stage.

The gallows platform was wide and high, its ladder bearing thirteen steps and its side-by-side traps triggered by a singular lever. It had been built by a stranger. An Italian master carpenter with the straight-ahead eyes of a clergyman who called himself Signore Buonostirpe. He’d walked into Judge Beavers’ office early Thursday morning and proclaimed, “I make catafalco. I make for nothing.” He had a letter from George Maledon at Fort Smith Arkansas which read:
This man has a gift from God, and it is to build, completely gratis, the most beautiful killing mechanisms you’re likely to see
. Buonostirpe said he believed the guilty should pay with their lives. He wanted only to have his choice of timber and to work in solitude. He was granted both, and in two days’ time, he’d built the custom long-drop scaffold. The beams were spruce. The encased bottom, sweetgum. It was costly to panel the high pillars, but encased bottoms were
customary since 1901 when Black Jack Tom Ketchum had been decapitated by a long-drop gallows in New Mexico.

Four policemen hopped from the surrey and cleared an entrance at the fence gate. It took some time. The people were thick, and when they parted, they pressed against one another in a ripple. The wagons rolled inside, and the gate was latched behind. Abe and Goldie stood from their coffin tops and waited.

The officers toted stepladders to the rear of each wagon. Rutherford and the skinny preacher descended like the rest. Reed did not. He unhitched a key ring from his belt and bent at Goldie’s side.

“What are you doing?” Rutherford called up.

Reed said, “We undo their ankles now. Less you want to carry Baach up that pitch.”

Rutherford looked at the stairs awaiting. He mumbled for Reed to hurry on and do it.