MacCallister Kingdom Come (5 page)

Jaco and Putt stopped just below a butte, then dismounted. Jaco handed the reins of his horse to Putt. “Hold the horses. I'm goin' to climb up here 'n see if there's anyone a-followin' us.”

Putt frowned. “What are you worried about? It's been four days 'n there ain't nobody that's been a-followin' us yet. Besides which, we kilt ever'one in the house, so there ain't nobody that can say we was the ones that done it.”

“It's better to be safe than sorry,” Jaco said as he started up the side of the butte.

Reaching the top, he shielded his eyes and studied the terrain all around them. He wished he had a spyglass, and thought it might be a good idea to steal one, if he could find one. Seeing nothing, he climbed back down. “I didn't see nobody, so I reckon it'll be all right to spend the night here.”

“What about the bottle of whiskey we bought back at that store we stopped at? Reckon we could break it out 'n drink it now?” Putt asked.

Jaco chuckled. “What the hell did we buy it for, iffen we didn't plan to drink it? Let's fry us up some bacon first, 'n maybe open up a can of beans.”

“All right. I'll get us a fire started.”

 

 

The owner of Jim's, Yes I Have It, Store, looked up with some trepidation when he saw so many riders stop in front of his place. He stepped behind his counter and reached down to wrap his hand around the shotgun that lay on the shelf. It was a foolish gesture—he knew he couldn't fight off all of them.

When he saw the star on the shirt of the man who came into the store, he took his hand off the gun and breathed easier.

“I saw the name of the store. Would you be Jim?”

“Yes, sir, the name is Jim Ponder. Can I help you?” he asked, putting both hands on the counter so the sheriff would know that he represented no threat.

“Mr. Ponder, I'm Sheriff Baxter, and I'm looking for two men, one named Jaco and the other Putt.”

Ponder shook his head. “No, sir, them names don't mean nothin' to me.”

“One of 'em is kinda dark, like an Injun or a Mexican, or maybe he's a breed. The other 'n is an albino, skin real white, and with—”

“Pink eyes?” Ponder asked, completing the sheriff's sentence. “Yes, sir, I seen 'em. I seen 'em both.”

“When did you see ‘em?”

“I seen 'em this very afternoon. They bought some bacon, beans, 'n a bottle of whiskey.”

“Which way did they go from here? North or south?”

Ponder smiled. “They didn't go either way. If you're a' trackin' 'em, it shouldn't be all that hard. They left the road and headed east toward Round Mountain over in the Mescalero Valley.”

“Thanks. You've been a big help.”

“Sheriff?” Ponder called as the sheriff turned to leave.

Baxter stopped and looked back toward him. “What did them two boys do?”

“They murdered a farmer, his wife, and their little girl. And they raped the wife and the little girl.”

“Damn,” Ponder said. “I hope you find them.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Ponder. We will,” Baxter said resolutely.

 

 

Just before dawn the next morning, A. M. Jaco was awakened from a sound sleep by a stream of water splashing on his face. He coughed, sputtered, and spat. Where was the water coming from?

Jaco opened his eyes and saw Sheriff Baxter standing over him and buttoning up his pants.

“Sorry to have to wake you that way,” Baxter said. “But I didn't have any other water handy.”

“You . . . you pissed on me?” Jaco shouted angrily.

“Yeah, I did. Oh, by the way, Jaco, you and Putt are under arrest.”

Jaco sat up quickly. Looking around, he saw as many as twenty armed men surrounding the place where he and Putt had bedded down for the night.

“See here, my good man. I was told that the railroad did not run to a place called Chugwater. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, that's right,” the ticket agent said. “If you want to go on to Chugwater, you'll have to go by coach.”

“How long of a trip will that be?”

“About five hours.”

“And, may I inquire as to where I might obtain passage?”

“Right here.”

“Really? I would not have expected that. I thought that the railroad and the coach lines would be competitive.”

“Only when we're goin' to the same place.” The ticket agent picked up a printed booklet. “What is your name, sir?”

“It is Hanson. Sir Calvin . . . ,” he stopped in mid-sentence and chuckled in embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. My name, sir, is Calvin Hanson.”

The clerk wrote out the ticket, then stamped it, and handed it to Hanson. “An Englishman, are you?”

Hanson smiled. “My accent always gives me away.”

“Well, yes sir, that, but I could also tell by the hat you are wearing that you are English.”

“I am an Englishman by birth, but I have chosen to live in this wonderful country and hope, soon, to acquire citizenship.”

“And an American hat?”

“Indeed, sir, and an American hat.” Hanson removed his hat and examined it thoroughly, turning it in his hands. “Though I must say, this hat is still in as good a shape as it was the day I bought it at Locke and Company Hatters on St. James Street in London.”

“I'm sure it is a fine hat, Mr. Hanson. And welcome to America.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After receiving directions as to the location, Hanson left the railroad depot and walked the two blocks to the stagecoach station. He much preferred to travel by train, where he could secure first-class accommodations. Stagecoaches were the great equalizer of travel—all passengers rode in the same general discomfort.

Hanson carried a suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other. When he reached the station, he checked his suitcase in to be carried in the boot.

“We can put your briefcase back there as well, if you'd like,” the station manager said.

“I appreciate your kindness sir, but I prefer to keep it on my person.”

“I understand. You're a drummer, aren't you? You've got your samples in there. Notions and such?”

“Yes, you are most astute, sir,” Hanson said.

“Well, Mr. Hanson, you're all checked in, so you may as well have a seat out there in the waiting room. The coach will be leaving in”—the manager pulled a watch from his pocket, opened the cover with his thumb, and looked at it—“another twenty minutes.”

Hanson took a seat and, with his hat on top of the briefcase that was lying on his lap, began his wait for the coach.

Nine other people waited in the room, and he began calculating how uncomfortable the coach ride would be. Some coaches had a third seat in the middle, and three on each seat would enable the coach to accommodate nine. He thought of the other passengers he would be riding with, and wondered what they would think if they realized that he had thirty thousand dollars in cash in the briefcase he was holding. Almost subconsciously, he tightened his grip on the case.

At almost exactly twenty minutes after he took his seat, a man carrying a shotgun stepped into the waiting room. “Folks, my name is Brody Pierce. I'm the shotgun guard. Hodge Weatherly will be your driver this mornin'. The team is hitched, 'n we're ready to get started. Anyone holdin' a ticket to Chugwater, come climb aboard.”

To Hanson's great relief, only three people responded to the call. A woman and two children got up, and Hanson hurried to reach the door first so he could hold it open for her.

“Thank you, sir,” the woman said with a broad smile.

“My pleasure, madam.”

Duff had come into town to visit with Megan's brother-in-law. He met Jason at Megan's Dress Emporium, where Megan, Melissa, and Timmy were also inside.

“I swear, when you get Melissa into a store, it's almost impossible to get her out,” Jason complained. “You could stick hot needles under my fingernails, or you could make me spend time in a store with Melissa. It's the same thing.”

Duff laughed. His own personal feelings about being in a store, any store anywhere, pretty much mirrored those expressed by Jason. “There's always a good conversation going on in Fiddlers' Green. What do you say we spend some time there?”

The two men walked next door to the saloon.

 

 

As a surprise for her sister, Megan had made a new dress of dark green silk for her, selecting a pattern from
Harper's Bazaar
. With a bustle in the back and a frilled front, it was quite stylish. She held it up for Melissa to see.

“Oh, it's beautiful!” Melissa said. “But where am I going to find a place to wear it in Eagle Pass?

“I'm sure Jason will find some excuse for you to wear it,” Megan said. “You'll look so pretty in it, he'll have to. In the meantime, we'll find some reason for you to wear it here. I want to see you in it, anyway.”

While the two sisters were talking, Timmy was sitting on the shelf at the front window, looking out onto the street. He saw the stagecoach roll by, then watched as the passengers disembarked. He laughed at one of them. “Mama, come over here and look at that man's funny hat,” he said, pointing to the man, who, unlike the other passengers, was wearing a suit.

He was also wearing a hat that was considerably different from all the other hats that could be seen on the street.

“Why, that's called a bowler hat, Timmy,” Megan said. “It's the kind of hat that's worn by gentlemen from the East. I expect he is a salesman of some sort, from the case he is carrying. No doubt he will be calling on me soon, trying to sell needles and pins, ribbons, and the like.”

“Do you buy such things from traveling salesmen?” Melissa asked.

“From time to time, I do. Often they will have just what I need, and I can order without having to leave town.”

 

 

Nate Hanson stepped down from the coach, squared the hat on his head, then went into the station. “I say, I wonder if it would be possible for me to leave my luggage here for a while.”

“Sure, we can keep it for you. Is it on the coach?”

“Yes. If you'll come out with me, I'll show you which piece is mine.”

“What about that little pouch thing you're a-carryin'? Do you want to leave that here, as well?”

“No, thank you. I'll take care of it myself.”

After making the arrangements for his luggage, Hanson went to the bank, and, stepping up to the teller's cage, put the briefcase on the counter beside him. “My good man, I just arrived on the afternoon coach, and would like to open an account.”

“Very well sir. We'll be glad to oblige.” The teller opened a book, entered Nathan Hanson's name, then had him sign it. “All right, Mr. Hanson, how much do you wish to put in your account? Fifty dollars? One hundred?”

“Thirty thousand,” Hanson said.

The bank teller gasped. “How much did you say?”

“Thirty thousand,” Hanson repeated. “I have it right here.”

Hanson loosened the straps on the briefcase, then opened it. When he did so, it exposed several stacks of money.

“Good Lord, man! Are you telling me that you had all that money with you on the stagecoach?”

“Yes. I thought it would be more convenient for me to bring the money with me.”

“I don't know that it was such a good idea for you to have so much money on your person. You were wise to say nothing about it.”

“Yes, I thought that would be the better part of discretion.”

The teller chuckled. “You're a foreigner, aren't you?”

“How could you tell?” Hanson asked, though the teller didn't pick up on his sarcasm.

“I can tell by the way you talk. Don't get me wrong, we've got nothing against foreigners in this town. One of our leading citizens is a foreigner.” The bank teller offered no further information. He was busy recording the deposit.

The money Hanson deposited wasn't his alone. Though he was the majority investor, the consortium consisted of English investors who had bought a ranch in Texas. Hanson was going to manage it for them. After doing a little research, he'd decided that, instead of longhorns or Herefords, it would be more profitable to raise Black Angus. The others agreed with him, and gave him carte blanche to do whatever he felt was necessary.

That same research had led him to Chugwater, where he planned to buy Black Angus cattle from a man named Duff MacCallister. He'd decided that, under the circumstances, the transaction could be better facilitated if he paid in cash, rather than waiting for a bank draft to be enacted.

Hanson had not met with Duff, nor had he communicated with him. but he was sure that two honest men could make a business arrangement that would be satisfactory to both sides. From what he had learned about Duff MacCallister, he was certain he was an honest man.

Even if he was a Scotsman.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here court of Lincoln County, Robbins, New Mexico, will now come to order, the Honorable Earl Nesbit presiding. All rise.”

There was a scrape of chairs, a rustle of pants, petticoats, and skirts as the spectators in the courtroom, which wasn't really a courtroom, but a schoolhouse, rose at the bailiff's decree.

The two defendants were A. M. Jaco and Blue Putt. Jaco had a swarthy complexion and it was known that he was a half-breed. What wasn't known was what breed he was half of. He didn't actually have a first name. He had only the initials A.M. and since he didn't like that, he had always been called Jaco. Blue Putt was an albino, with chalk white skin, white hair, and pink eyes.

The two men were being charged with the murder of Marvin Drew and his wife and daughter. There was no question as to who did it. Having survived his gunshot wound, young Mickey Drew was present, and was prepared to stand up in court and identify them again, this time for the judge and jury.

Judge Nesbit was a big man, with a square face and piercing blue eyes, so his presence was immediately felt. He moved quickly to the bench, then sat down. “Be seated.”

The gallery sat, then watched as the two defendants were brought in.

“Your Honor, I'm going to make this case quick and simple,” prosecutor Bill Gillespie said. “These two men killed Marvin Drew, his wife Zelda, and his daughter, Jean Marie. They tried to kill Mr. Drew's son, Mickey, as well, but he survived a gunshot wound to the stomach and provided the law with the information necessary to make the arrest.”

“Is this eyewitness in the courtroom today?” Judge Nesbit asked.

“He is, Your Honor.”

“And will he testify?”

“He will, Your Honor. I call him to the stand now.”

Gillespie walked over to help Mickey stand, then stepped back as he was sworn in.

“Now Mickey, you were an eyewitness to the murder of your father, mother, and sister, is that correct?”

“No, sir.”

There was a gasp of surprise from the gallery.

“I didn't see my pa get killed,” Mickey said. “He was already dead when me 'n Jean Marie went into the house.”

“But you did see two men standing over the body, did you not?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are those men present in this courtroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you point them out, please?”

“It's them two over there.” Mickey pointed to Jaco and Putt.

“And would those also be the same men who shot you?”

“He's the one that shot me.” Mickey pointed to Jaco.

“And did you see these men kill your mother and your sister?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Ethan Poindexter was the court-appointed defense counsel. “Young man, were you shot before or after your mother and sister were killed?”

“I was shot before,” Mickey said.

“Then how is it you can testify that you saw these two men kill your mother and sister?”

“On account of I wasn't kilt,” Mickey replied. “I was just playin' like I was dead, but all the time I was lyin' there, I was watchin' what was happenin'.”

“No further questions,” Poindexter said, realizing that by asking that question he had only made the situation worse for his clients.

Gillespie rested his case, and Poindexter called a witness for the defense, a man named Benton, who claimed that he had come by the Drew ranch just before noon and that when he left, Jaco and Putt left with him.

“I don't know who shot the boy and kilt his folks, but it wasn't Jaco and Putt, seein' as they was both with me,” Benton said.

Poindexter surrendered his witness to Gillespie.

“Mr. Benton, what is your mother's name?” Gillespie asked.

Poindexter stood and shouted, “Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant.

“Your Honor, I will establish relevancy,” Gillespie promised.

The judge nodded. “You may continue. Witness is directed to answer the question.”

“What is your mother's name, Mr. Benton?” the prosecutor repeated.

“She don't have the same last name as me,” Benton said. “Her name is Miz Pittman.”

“Would her first name be Althea?”

Benton mumbled the answer.

Gillespie took a step forward. “I'm sorry, Mr. Benton. I didn't hear that answer.”

“Yeah, her first name is Althea.”

“Your Honor, if it please the court, I would like to read a court document, dated two years previous. ‘Question: ‘What is your mother's name? Answer: Althea Pittman.' The person responding to the questions in this case, Your Honor, was A. M. Jaco. Benton and Jaco are brothers, and I submit that Benton has just committed perjury in order to help his brother.”

“That ain't true!” Benton said.

Gillespie faced the witness. “Mr. Benton, you can go to prison for five years for lying or you can recant your statement now, and I won't prosecute you. It is your decision.”

Benton looked over at Jaco. “Brother or not, I ain't goin' to jail for you!”

“So, Mr. Benton, I'm going to ask you again. Did you stop by the Drew ranch, and were Mr. and Mrs. Drew still alive when you left with your brother and Putt?”

“I didn't go out to the ranch,” Benton said. “I don't know what they done.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benton, you have done the right thing.”

 

 

In his instructions to the jury, Judge Nesbit reminded them that they were to disregard any exculpatory evidence that may have been supplied by Benton as being unreliable. On the other hand, the witness for the prosecution was a young man known to be of good character, and his very willingness to testify, despite his wound, could only add to his credibility.

To no one's surprise, the jury found Jaco and Putt guilty.

“Bailiff, would you position the prisoners before the bench for sentencing, please?” Judge Nesbit asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The two men were brought before the bench.

Jaco stared defiantly at the judge. “Get it over with, old man. I don't plan to be standin' here all day.”

“A. M. Jaco and Blue Putt, I hereby remand you to the New Mexico Territorial Prison, where you will remain until such time as all the paperwork can be attended to, pertaining disposition of the sentence I am about to administer.

“My sentence is this. I am instructing the warden at the territorial prison to lead you two men, one at a time, to the gallows, which will be permanently positioned within the prison grounds. There, after having a knotted rope placed around your neck, you will be dropped through a trapdoor where life will be yanked from your bodies, either by a broken neck or by strangulation.

“It is not within my authority to dispatch your worthless souls to Hell, but I have no doubt but that He who is the final judge will take care of that task for me. After all life has been extinguished, your worthless bodies will be cut down and placed without ceremony or fanfare into a crude pine box, then buried six feet underground. There, as food for worms and maggots, they will rot away until nothing is left that will indicate that you worthless persons ever walked on the face of this earth.”

The people of New Mexico were justifiably proud of their prison. On the evening of August 6, 1885, Warden Gregg hosted a “gala house warming” at the nearly completed penitentiary. The guest list read like a who's who of New Mexico society. The Santa Fe
Daily New Mexican
reported more than a hundred carriages and wagons of all types and sizes “charged about the streets of the ancient capital city” bringing guests to view the new building.

The festivities began officially with a grand march led by Territorial Physician J. H. Sloan and Miss Rose Keller of Las Vegas. Music was provided by the 13th United States Infantry band from Fort Marcy, strategically positioned on an elevated platform at one end of a large room which was to be the prison chapel. As ladies in brightly colored dresses danced with gentlemen in formal attire among a vast arrangement of flowers, they created what one observer described as an enchanting, “ever changing variety of kaleidoscope views.”

At midnight, dancing was halted for dinner on formally set tables. The menu is not on record, but the meal reportedly consisted of a variety of “edibles and drinkables,” served in “the most approved manner” by a cadre of waiters in white aprons. After dinner, dancing resumed in the chapel and continued until two in the morning.

Neither Jaco nor Putt were aware of the activities which had so recently opened the prison. They arrived wearing their prison garb of black-and-white striped uniforms, and were placed immediately in Death Row. Because they had been sentenced to hang, they were kept separated, not only from the general population, but also from each other.

They were able to communicate with each other only during their one-hour exercise time out in the yard. And though were together, they were still separated from everyone else, except for a few trusties who were normally given very light work details and had freedom to move about the prison, going anywhere they wished.

“When do you think they'll build the gallows?” Putt asked.

“It don't matter when they build it. We won't be usin' it,” Jaco said.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm goin' to get us out of here.”

“How?”

“I'm goin' to get us out of here,” Jaco repeated, without being specific.