Chapter Seventeen
In jail that night, Clem’s sleep, what little there was, was filled with dreams.
His feet were dangling over the back of the wagon as his ma and pa drove down to the Current River for the all day preaching. All of the neighbors were gathered there, sitting on blankets listening to a traveling preacher as he walked back and forth in front of them, preaching about the fires of hell and stabbing his finger into the air to emphasize his points. Then it came time for the baptism and dozens lined up to go down to the water.
“No, I ain’t goin’ to go down to the crick and let you dunk me in the water.”
“You have to be baptized if you want to be saved,” the preacher said.
“I don’t want to be saved.”
“But you must. You must give your soul to the Lord.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to do it.”
“Then you will burn in hell!” the good reverend said, pointing a long, thin, bony finger at Clem.
Clem shouted out loud, and waking with a start, sat straight up on the cot.
“Are you all right in there?” the deputy called back.
“What time is it?”
“It’s one-thirty.”
“I’ve got nine and a half hours left,” Clem said.
The deputy came to the jail cell and looked in. There had been two other prisoners in jail when they brought Clem in, but both were in for being drunk and disturbing the peace only, so Marshal Drew let them go. He didn’t want any other prisoners around while he was holding Clem.
“You want something? A cup of coffee, maybe?” the deputy asked.
“Coffee? What about whiskey? You got ’ny whiskey?”
“Sorry. I can’t give you any whiskey. Coffee will have to do.”
“All right, give me a cup of coffee then.”
The deputy walked back to the front of the jail, poured a cup of coffee from the blue metal pot that set on top of the pot-bellied stove, then brought it back to Clem.
“Thanks,” Clem said.
“Do you want something to read? I’ve got a couple of books here.”
“I ain’t never learnt how to read,” Clem said.
“All right,” the deputy said. “If you want any more coffee, just let me know.”
“Hey, Deputy,” Clem called.
The deputy turned.
“Can you read?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever read anything about hell?”
“Yes, I’ve read about it.”
“Do you think it’s real?
“Yes, I believe it’s real.”
“I’m goin’ there, aren’t I? I’m goin’ to hell.”
“You probably are.”
“Well I don’t care,” Clem said with forced bravado. “I’ve got lots of friends there. We’ll have us a grand time.”
As the deputy went back to the desk out front, Clem returned to sit on the cot. He thought of Sam Logan and his other friends in the Yellow Kerchief Gang. He wondered if any of them would show up for his hanging. He wished they would. He wouldn’t give them away or anything. He would just like to see one friendly face in the crowd.
At the end of Sussex Street stood a tall cottonwood tree. Approximately twelve feet from the ground was a large limb that ran at almost a perfect right angle to the tree trunk and extended out for several feet. Marshal Drew and two members of the city council, upon close examination and consideration, decided that the tree would suffice for the hanging. As soon as the decision was made, Charley Keith, the town painter, made a sign that was nailed to the trunk of the tree.
On This Tree
At 10:00 A.M.
Will Be Hung the Murderer
Clem No Last Name
By nine-thirty that morning, nearly all the residents of Sussex were gathered around the tree, awaiting the event. A couple of entrepreneurs were taking advantage of the gathering by peddling homemade candy and cookies. Mr. Dysart, the photographer, had his camera and tripod, and he had already set it up at three different locations, trying to find the most revealing angle.
There was some excitement when a buckboard was brought out and positioned under the tree, then a rope was thrown over the limb. One end of the rope was tied to the limb; the other end was tied in a hangman’s noose.
The Reverend D.L. Mullins had been asked to provide some comfort to the condemned, so he was present as well. But never since he had become a man of the cloth had he seen a gathering this large, and he decided he could not turn his back on this opportunity. He climbed up onto the back of a buckboard and began preaching.
“Brothers and sisters, this is a somber occasion. We are gathered here to hurl the soul of a sinner into the abyss of eternity. And while we watch as this sinner is cast into hell, it is time for us to examine ourselves to see if ...”
“Hey! We didn’t come here to hear no preachin’!” someone shouted from the crowd. “If we want to hear preachin’ we’ll go to church. We come here to see that murderin’ son of a bitch get his neck stretched!”
There was a smattering of nervous laughter in the crowd.
“Oh but you must hear me, my friends,” the preacher said. “For the words you hear me say today could keep your souls from eternal torment.”
Although the preacher continued his sermon, there were few, if any, who were listening, and fewer still who were actually paying attention to him. Matt and Frewen had come to the hanging, as well as Morrison, Frewen’s foreman, and several of his cowboys, especially Jeff and all those who had been particular friends with Burt. Although there were quite a few women and children in the audience, neither Clara, Jennie, nor Winnie had come, Frewen having specifically asked them to stay away.
“I would like to think that this is one of the men who killed Graham, Bates, Emmitt and Cooter,” one of the cowboys said.
“Yes, and Snead and Coleman too,” Frewen said.
“That’s funny,” Marshal Drew said, looking around the crowd.
“What is funny?” Frewen asked.
“I see a lot of Thistledown cowboys here, but I don’t see Reed, or Mr. Teasdale. You’d think they would have an interest in this. They’ve got as much to lose from the rustlers as anyone else.”
“Hmm, you’re right,” Frewen said. “I don’t know why William isn’t here. I’m sure he knows about it.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to watch a hanging,” Marshal Drew said. “It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”
“It’s not something I particularly want to watch, either,” Frewen said. “But my hope is that seeing a rustler die by hanging will have a sobering effect on the others.”
“Here the son of a bitch comes!” someone shouted.
“How do you feel, Clem? You ready to hang?” another called out.
Clem’s appearance not only ended the impromptu sermon, it also halted all conversation. As Clem was led from the jail, he was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing when Matt brought him in, a collarless blue shirt and gray trousers held up with suspenders. The only difference was that he was not wearing the yellow kerchief now, the thought being that having it around his neck might interfere with the hanging. Clem’s legs weren’t hobbled, but his hands were handcuffed behind his back. He squirted out a stream of tobacco juice just as he reached the buckboard.
Earlier that morning a carpenter built a set of steps that would allow him to climb easily onto the buckboard, but when he reached them, he hesitated.
“Get on up there, Clem,” Marshal Drew said. “You got no one but your own self to blame for bein’ here, so why don’t you show us you can die like a man?”
Clem glared at the marshal. “Maybe you’d like to show me how it’s done,” he suggested.