Winding Stair (9781101559239) (39 page)

He laughed, a short burst of sound that gave me a start.

“When Rufus saw his old lady on that porch, he got so excited he couldn't talk. So I called out to Garret. . . .”

He rose abruptly, dropping his cigarette on the floor and grinding it out with his toe, the leg-irons rattling. Before he could reach the door, I was in front of him, holding his arm, and we stood there face-to-face. He seemed smaller than he had that day I'd arrested him, a little stooped. I had to look down into his eyes.

“Smoker,” I said. “Tell me. That colored man. Was he with you the day you hit the Thrasher farm?”

The smile that never reached his eyes came quickly.

“Well, Mr. Pay, you people convicted him, didn't you?”

I sensed it was useless to ask anything about the three men condemned along with him. But somehow, talking about Rufus Deer failed to qualify under the same code.

“But you and Rufus put this whole Thrasher thing together?”

“Hell, no. Rufus planned it. I went along because he paid me.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“He paid me eleven dollars and a little gold watch we got off that first woman.”

“Mrs. Eagle John?”

“I guess that's the one. He paid me fifteen dollars we found at the Thrasher farm. And he was going to give me the black horse.”

“You shot three men for twenty-six dollars?”

“There was the horse, don't forget,” he said. “Besides, I told you once. I liked Rufus. You had to know Rufus. He could talk a man into almost anything, make it sound profitable. He had half a dozen stores in The Nations paying him money just to leave them alone. And the other owlhooters left those stores alone, too, because they knew if they didn't, Rufus would send me after them. Hell, owlhooters over there were more scared of Rufus than they were of your federal marshals.”

“Just a minute,” I said, and handed him what was left of the package of cigarettes. “One more thing. That death's-head note we found in the colored boy's cell. What about that?”

“Note? I don't know anything about any note.” I was sure he was telling the truth, but with that noncommittal face, who could tell?

“Judge Parker would sure like to know about that.”

“Judge Parker?” He laughed again, that mirthless cough. “I wish somebody had offered to pay me to shoot him a long time ago.”

“Come on, Smoker, you don't think you could come in here and shoot Judge Parker, do you?”

“Hell, I wouldn't do it here. At the Methodist church, or that hospital he's always visiting, or on the streets. It wouldn't be hard. Only getting away from here afterward would be hard.”

I couldn't resist asking him the next question.

“Smoker, how much would you have charged to kill Judge Parker?”

He thought about it a moment, holding the package of cigarettes in his hands, turning them slowly.

“That job would take a thousand,” he said.

He pulled away from me and slammed his handcuffs against the door. The jailer was there at once, and I wondered if he'd heard anything we'd said. He took Smoker Chubee's arm and led him out and along the hall toward death row, high in the tiered cells at the far end of the building. Smoker held back for only a moment, looking over his shoulder at me when he spoke.

“You remember that little story,” he said. And then they were gone.

The courthouse compound when I stepped out into it was no colder than that cubicle had been. The wind was coming in from the southwest, blowing hard across the Winding Stair Mountains and out into the Arkansas Valley. I was glad I'd brought my heavy coat from Saint Louis. The compound was deserted and the only illumination was from gaslights along the walls. I walked before the wind, hands thrust into my coat pockets, thinking about the man I'd just seen and how alien his story would sound related in the fashionable living rooms of Saint Louis. I knew there were such things as professional killers, but I had never known one, certainly never to my knowledge talked with one. It seemed fantastic that I had sat alone with such a man in a dismal little room, chilled to the bone as he revealed calmly the extent of his viciousness. Yet I found it impossible to despise him.

U
nder cloudy February skies, the light of dawn had begun to show the details of the federal compound. Many of the people there had come in darkness, to wait, and others were still arriving. A small group, about forty, were clustered around the gallows enclosure, waiting for George Maledon to open the gate. These were the ticket holders, the lawyers and newspapermen and prominent citizens of the town who had asked to be witnesses to the executions. All the others huddled along the walls of the compound, taking shelter against the wind until the condemned men appeared at the south door of the federal jail. A few were on the walls already, where they could catch some view of what would happen on the platform under the heavy oak beam. Some small boys were in the trees along the streets, hanging like raccoons, arms and legs wrapped around the bare branches. A truant officer moved along the rows of maples, pulling down those who were supposed to be in school. But most of them were Indians from The Nations, children of families who stood below, and they remained in the gray dawn light, dark lumps in the thicket of leafless limbs.

At the north end of the building, near the courtroom, lights burned in two offices. William Evans was going through briefs and drinking coffee from an old army china mug. And Judge Isaac Parker was there, even though on this day there were no hearings scheduled before him. He would receive no visitors, and even those with court business would not disturb him. It was said that on these days he was morose and withdrawn. He read his Bible and paced the worn Oriental carpet that floored his chambers, his face gray and his lips set in a hard line. It was said, too, that during these times he was likely to write one of the letters for which he had become famous, to officials in Washington city, scalding the system of law enforcement in The Nations and pleading for something more effective, something that allowed the people who lived there to have more voice in trying their own criminals. He would fret and fume until he heard the sound of the trap falling, a sound that echoed across the compound and through the surrounding streets like a boxcar door being slammed shut. Then, it was said, he would kneel behind his massive desk and pray, nobody knew for what or for whom.

Three deputy marshals came from the front of the building, with Winchesters, stationing themselves about the yard, watching the little knots of Indians along the walls. Everyone kept their hands pressed deep into coat pockets, their feet scuffling in the light film of snow that drifted across the ground in powdery wisps. Toward the river, a freight train passed, the engine whistle giving sharp warning to those coming from Choctaw Strip, west of the compound. There were crows in the elms and sycamores along the Poteau, and their raucous cawing came strongly on the wind. They were always there on hanging days, the old-timers said. Now and again, there was the yeasty odor of fresh bread as the wagons at the nearby bakeries loaded and began their morning runs through the city. Somewhere near National Cemetery a dog barked, and beyond that, a mill whistle sounded the call to work. A bank clock along Garrison Avenue struck eight, the sound faint and distant.

With the last stroke of the clock, George Maledon appeared in the south doorway of the jail, coils of heavy black rope draped on each arm. With him were three men, his assistants, and they quickly made their way across the thirty yards that separated the jail from the gallows enclosure. Every eye followed their progress, and what little conversation there had been among those waiting was now stilled. The four men disappeared inside the fence, leaving the witnesses at the gate. From positions atop the walls and from the trees, it could be seen that the ropes were being attached to the oak beam above the gallows platform, the teardrop loops hanging in the wind, swaying back and forth, the thirteen coils on each knot dreadfully thick, as thick as a grown man's forearm.

Inside the jail, the Winding Stair Four had taken their baths and donned the simple black suits the court provided for men going to the rope. They had eaten breakfast and smoked cigars. Now, as they were led along the corridor toward the south door, those waiting in the yard could hear other prisoners calling farewell. As though on a single string, the people in the compound moved away from the walls and to the south end of the building so they might be near enough to see the four men pass toward the gallows. As they began to take their places along the route of this last walk, the enclosure gates were opened and the witnesses quickly ushered inside, to stand near the foot of the machine.

First came two deputy marshals, armed with rifles. Behind them, in the same order in which they had marched into the courtroom almost six months before, came the condemned four. Johnny Boins was calm, but he was not smiling now. His face was serious and pale in the early light. He wore on his left lapel a small boutonniere of hothouse lilacs. Close around him were more deputies, and walking beside him was a minister from a local church. During the time of waiting for a decision from the Supreme Court, his parents had been back in Fort Smith, and they had been allowed to visit him each day. But they had returned now to Eureka Springs.

In close order came Skitty Cornkiller and Nason Grube, with their escorts. The young Creek had used pomade on his hair, but the wind loosened it anyway, blowing strands across his face. He walked with his head up, his eyes wide and trancelike, but he showed no sign of fear. Twice in that short walk, he tried to brush the hair back from his forehead, lifting his manacled hands before his face. Behind him came Nason Grube, a Bible held between his hands, his lips moving silently. A Catholic priest moved beside the black man, telling his beads. The scars on Grube's face were almost invisible in the faint light, and he appeared serene.

Smoker Chubee looked about the compound as he walked toward the gallows, moving gracefully despite the heavy leg-irons, clearly making an effort to do so. His gaze was impersonal, lacking interest or curiosity, sweeping back and forth. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of fresh bread coming on the wind, but there was no light in his eyes.

I stood just inside the gallows enclosure gate, behind a deputy marshal, and as they came, each saw me there. Johnny Boins nodded, and the trace of a smile crossed his handsome face. Cornkiller glanced at me only once and then his eyes went to the gallows rising before him and I saw him swallow hard. I thought Nason Grube's lips formed my name, but I heard nothing. As Smoker Chubee passed me, he winked again, as he had done that first day in court.

Mounting the stairs was a difficult task. Their leg-irons dragged behind them, hanging on each step. Deputies at their elbows helped them. No one hesitated. No one held back. As each of them reached the top of the steps and moved onto the platform, he was silhouetted for a moment against the gray sky before moving under the slanted roof. They were then seated on a long bench that ran the length of the back wall, and everyone stood away from them except the Catholic priest, who knelt for a few seconds before Nason Grube. Finally, he, too, moved back, taking the Bible from the old man's hands.

On the far right of the platform, where the trap lever thrust upward like a huge locomotive throttle, was the jailer, holding the death warrant. Immediately behind him was Oscar Schiller, his palmetto replaced now with a Russian fur cap. The jailer cleared his throat with a loud rasp, and as he held the paper up to read, a number of spectators removed their hats.

“On order of the United States Circuit Court for the Western District of Arkansas, the following,” the jailer read, his voice loud and carrying out beyond the enclosure to the people gathered in the compound. “That Johnny Boins, Skitty Cornkiller, Nason Grube, and Smoker Chubee shall be put to death at eight thirty o'clock on this date and at this place, Fort Smith in the State of Arkansas, by hanging, for crimes capital committed in the Indian Territory, having been duly tried before a jury of their peers and found guilty of rape and murder, and having exhausted all appeals for the sentence under the law. Signed, J. W. Mitchell, United States Commissioner for the Western District of Arkansas, February eighteenth, 1891.”

He turned toward the four seated men.

“Do any of you have anything to say?”

“Could one of the reverends say a prayer?” Skitty Cornkiller asked, his voice quavering.

Now all the hats in the enclosure came off, and heads were bowed as one of the ministers on the platform moved to the front and faced the condemned men. He spoke aloud, but his words were indistinguishable to those immediately below him.

“Anybody else have anything to say?” the jailer asked.

“I was born a free man,” Nason Grube said loudly, “and I will die a free man.”

There was a long pause, with no sound but the wind. Oscar Schiller's harsh voice cut across it.

“All right. Everybody onto the trap.”

The deputies came from the far ends of the platform again to help the four as they rose and formed a line under the oak beam. Two deputies worked with each of them. Handcuffs were removed and the men's arms pinned at their sides by steel bracelets on a heavy leather belt until now hidden under their coats. Leg-irons were removed, the long links thrown to the rear of the platform with a loud clatter, and replaced by short lengths of rope that secured their ankles tight together.

“Good-bye, Helen,” Skitty Cornkiller shouted.

“That's his sister,” someone among the spectators whispered. The young Creek seemed unable to maintain his balance with his feet tied together, and a deputy had to stand close behind him, holding his elbows.