Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

by William W. Johnstone

  John Henry, who had testified for the prosecution during the trial, was present in the court the next day, waiting with the others for Judge Parker’s arrival.

  The back door to the courtroom opened, and the bailiff called out, loudly, “All rise!”

  There was a scrape of chairs, a rustle of pants, petticoats, and skirts as the spectators in the courtroom stood. A spittoon rang as one male member of the gallery made a last-second, accurate expectoration of his tobacco quid.

  “Oyez, oyez, oyez. This federal court for the Western District of Arkansas is now in session, the Honorable Judge Isaac Charles Parker presiding.”

  The gallery was limited to fifty spectators, and tickets for attendance were highly prized commodities. Most people agreed that Judge Parker’s performances were the best show anywhere, not because of any particular showmanship, but because of his hard-nosed treatment of criminals. He had sentenced so many hardened criminals to hang that he was known far and wide as the “Hanging Judge.”

  A former United States Congressman from Missouri, Parker was a stern-looking man with a Vandyke beard and piercing blue eyes. He moved quickly to the bench, then sat down.

  “Be seated,” he said.

  The gallery sat, then watched with interest as Vernon Simmons and Injun Joe Pipestem, their trial completed, were brought into the courtroom, bound and shackled. The evidence against them had been overwhelming and the jury had taken little time in returning a verdict of guilty on all counts. Now, all that remained was for Judge Parker to pass on their sentence.

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

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The two men were brought before the bench. Injun Joe stood with his head bowed, contritely. Vernon Simmons smiled at the judge in arrogant defiance.

  Judge Parker cleared his throat. “You men have been tried before a jury of twelve men, honest and true, for the murder of Harold and Mary Two Hills. You were ably represented by counsel—”

  “Is that what that fella was? A lawyer?” Vernon interrupted. “I figured maybe it was someone you brung in from cleaning horseshit out of the stalls.”

  Judge Parker glared at Vernon, but he made no direct reply. “You have both been found guilty as charged. Had you not been found guilty of that murder, you would have been tried again, a total of five times for each of the murders you are known to have committed.”

  “We know all that. Get on with it,” Vernon taunted.

  The bailiff took a step toward Vernon, but Judge Parker nodded at him, and the bailiff stepped back.

  “Additionally you, Mr. Simmons—”

  “Why don’t you call me Vernon, Isaac? Why, I feel as if we are old friends now,” Vernon shouted.

  When the gallery laughed nervously, Vernon turned toward them and held his arms over his head, with his handcuffed hands clasped. “It looks like I’m just surrounded by friends,” he said.

  “You ain’t got no friends, you low-life murderin’ son of a bitch!” someone from the gallery shouted.

  “Order! Order in the court!” Judge Parker said loudly. He banged his gavel several times for order and when the gallery quieted, he glared at them.

  “If there is one more demonstration I will clear the court and hang these men in private,” he growled.

  The crowd, not wanting to miss the spectacle of the hanging, fell silent.

  “And now, Mr. Simmons,” the judge continued. “As I was about to say, though you were only tried for the one murder, it is well known that you have killed others. Would you like to clear your conscience and confess to those other murders here, before this court?”

  “Yeah, why not?” Vernon replied. “What are you going to do, hang me five times?”

  “If that were possible, Mr. Simmons, you may be assured that I would do so. Fortunately, one hanging is all it will take. I normally ask God to have mercy upon the souls of those I condemn to the gallows, but for you, Mr. Simmons, and you, Mr. Pipestem, I offer no such prayer. My sentence is temporal, but after it is carried out, you will be sentenced by a higher judge to a penalty that will be eternal.”

  “You go to hell, Judge,” Vernon spat out.

  “Interesting you should say that,” Judge Parker replied. “For that is exactly where you are about to go.” He picked up his gavel and rapped it sharply against the pad on his desk.

  “I sentence you, Vernon Simmons, and you, Joe Pipestem—”

  “My name is Billy Ray Pipestem.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Judge Parker replied.

  “If I am to die, I want to die under my real name. I am not Injun Joe. My real name is Billy Ray Pipestem.”

  “I’ll be damned, I’ve rode with you for two years, you never told me that,” Simmons said.

  “I’ve never died before,” Billy Ray Pipestem said.

  A nervous laugher spread through the courtroom, but was quickly silenced by a stern glance from the judge. The judge resumed his sentencing.

  “I sentence you, Vernon Simmons, and you, Billy Ray Pipestem, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Sentence will be carried out at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Your Honor!” the court-appointed defense attorney said. “That leaves no time for appeal!”

  “You should know, Mr. Dempster, that there is no appeal beyond me, short of the United States Supreme Court. The sentence will be carried out as ordered.”

  There was a buzz of whispered excitement throughout the court as everyone realized that tomorrow there would be a double hanging.

  “Two! We’re goin’ to be hanging two at the same time! This will for sure make the papers back East!” someone said excitedly.

  “Silence! Silence in the court,” Judge Parker said, and again, he slapped his gavel against the pad. The gallery grew quiet. “Deputy Messler, escort the condemned men to the holding cells. Court is dismissed.”

  “Who’ll have tickets to the hanging?” the clerk called.

  “Me! I want one!” someone called.

  “Save one for me!”

  The two prisoners, their legs hobbled with an eighteen-inch chain, were, for the move back to the cells, chained together. As the deputy escorted them out of the court and to the holding cell, they had to move with an awkward gait. They shuffled out as crowds of people pressed around the clerk to get the little blue ticket which would grant them access to the side courtyard where the hanging would take place.

  The holding cell was separated from the main jail. It was out in the side courtyard, less than fifty feet from the gallows itself. There, the condemned prisoners would be able to look through the barred windows and watch the crowd gather and the excitement grow as time for their execution approached.

  The deputy took them out through the side door of the courthouse, then across the sun-baked, dirt-packed courtyard toward the little holding cell. It was quiet in the yard since, as yet, no spectators had been allowed around the gallows.

  After he left the courtroom, John Henry walked down the street to the saloon. From the moment he stepped into the establishment, he was aware of the noise and the smells, not only of beer and whiskey, but of expectorated tobacco quids, pipe smoke, and body odor. He saw Marshal Sarber standing near the bar.

  “Hello, John Henry,” Sarber called out, cheerily. “Why don’t you come and join me? Barkeep, a beer for my friend.”

  “Thanks,” John Henry said.

  “Has the judge talked to you yet?” Sarber asked as the beer was put in front of John Henry.

  “Talked to me about what?”

  “Oh, no, you aren’t going to get me to steal the judge’s thunder. The judge doesn’t like to be upstaged, if you know what I mean.”

  John Henry lifted the mug to his mouth and took a long, satisfying drink of the amber liquid.

  “You just upstaged him, didn’t you? By telling me he wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yeah, maybe I did. Anyway, what are you doing d
rinking beer? I thought Injuns couldn’t be served liquor.”

  “This is the white part of me drinking beer,” John Henry said. “The Indian part of me is back at the hotel, already gone to bed.”

  Marshal Sarber laughed. “That’s a pretty damned good trick. Someday you’ll have to tell me how that works.”

  The next afternoon, there were nearly a thousand people gathered in the courtyard to watch the double hanging. Enterprising vendors were making the best of the situation, passing through the crowd to sell lemonade, beer, popcorn, and sweet rolls. In one corner of the courtyard, a black-frocked preacher stood on an overturned box, delivering a fiery sermon full of brimstone and perdition.

  On the second floor of the courtroom, Judge Parker stood at the window of his chambers and looked down on the proceedings. John Henry was just behind him, lighting a cigar which he had extracted from a humidor on the judge’s desk.

  “You did well, Marshal Sixkiller, bringing these two men in,” Parker said without turning away from the window. “Yes, sir, you did very well.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Step over here to the window, and you’ll have a good view,” Judge Parker invited.

  “Does it ever bother you, Judge?”

  “Does what bother me? Sentencing men to hang?”

  “Yes. Does it ever bother you?”

  “You have killed how many men, Marshal?”

  “Twelve, if you count the ones I killed during the war.”

  “Does it ever bother you that you have killed twelve men?”

  “The ones I killed in the war were not evil men, they were just soldiers, serving their side as I was serving mine. The only difference between us was the uniforms. But I’ve never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  “Do you think, John Henry, that any of the men I have sentenced to die, would have killed me, if they could?”

  “I suppose they would.”

  “There is no supposing about it. They absolutely would. And I haven’t condemned any man who hasn’t been found guilty of a capital offense by a jury of his peers. So to answer your question, no, it does not bother me one bit.”

  John Henry stepped up to the window and looked down onto the courtyard below.

  Down in the courtyard the two condemned men were led to the gallows. They were in the prison garb of a gray, collarless shirt and gray trousers. Their legs weren’t hobbled, but their hands were handcuffed behind their back. John Henry saw Vernon Simmons squirt out a stream of tobacco juice just as he reached the foot of the thirteen steps. He stopped there.

  “Go on up now, Simmons,” Marshal Sarber said. “You don’t want folks thinking you couldn’t die like a man, do you?”

  “I’m the one that’s about to die, Marshal,” Simmons replied. “I don’t need you tellin’ me how to do it.”

  “Come on, Vernon,” Marshal Sarber said more gently. “The longer you wait, the more time you have to think about it. Just get it done, and it’ll be all over for you.”

  Simmons and Pipestem moved onto the scaffold, then both men were positioned under the noose. The clergyman who had been preaching fire and damnation now walked up to the two men.

  “Vernon Simmons and Billy Ray Pipestem, since you both are soon to pass into an endless and unchangeable state, and your future happiness or misery depends upon the few moments which are left you, I require you to examine yourselves strictly, and your estate, both toward God and towards man, and let no worldly consideration hinder you from making a true and full confession of your sins, and giving all the satisfaction which is in your power to everyone whom you have wronged or injured, that you may find mercy at your heavenly Father’s hand and not be condemned on the dreadful day of judgment.”

  “Now, why the hell should I want to do that?” Vernon asked.

  “Why, to save your eternal soul, sir, as indeed, was the soul of the good thief saved by our Lord, even though the good thief, like our Lord, was dying upon the cross.”

  Vernon looked up. “This here ain’t a cross,” he said. “It’s a rope.”

  “I beg of you, sir. Repent. Repent now, before it is too late.”

  “Go away, preacher. Let a man die in peace.”

  Suddenly Billy Ray Pipestem, who had been quiet until this moment, began chanting.

  “Unequa dinelvdodi gaivladi.”

  “What are you doing?” the preacher asked.

  “He’s doin’ his death song.”

  “Blasphemy!” the preacher said as, red faced with anger, he turned and walked quickly off the scaffold.

  “Unequa dinelvdodi gaivladi.”

  “Do either of you men have any last words?” Marshal Sarber asked.

  “Unequa dinelvdodi gaivladi.”

  Vernon laughed. “Sounds to me like Injun Joe is talkin’ enough for both of us.”

  “All right. It is time,” Sarber said.

  “Sarber, you got ’ny friends in hell you want me to say hello to?”

  “Probably quite a few,” Marshal Sarber answered. He fit the noose. “When the trap opens, don’t hunch up your shoulders. If you’ll just relax, it will be better.”

  “Really? You want to tell me how the hell I can relax when I’m about to be hung?”

  “Unequa dinelvdodi gaivladi.”

  When Sarber had the nooses on both men, he stepped over to the handle which would open the trapdoors. He glanced up toward the window where Judge Parker stood looking down. Parker nodded his head and the hangman pulled the handle. The trapdoor swung down on its hinges and the bodies dropped about five feet.

  “Unequa dinelvdodi ga—”

  “Well, it’s done,” Judge Parker said, turning away from the window. John Henry stood there for a moment longer watching the two men twist slowly as they hung there from the end of the ropes that had broken their necks.

  Judge Parker poured himself a drink.

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “In the Indian Territory?”

  “Yes, out in the Cimarron Strip. There is a man by the name of Lucas Redbone. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I know Redbone well. I had a few run-ins with him while I was with the Indian Police.”

  “Good, I’m glad you know him. There won’t be any difficulty in you identifying him once you find him. I want you to bring him in, alive if you can. Dead if you have to.”

  “What has Redbone done now?” John Henry asked.

  “It would be a better question if you asked me what he hasn’t done. Murder, rape, robbery, you name it, he has done it. But the most recent thing he did was break a man named Ray Gibson out of jail. And he killed the jailer while he was doing it.”

  “All right, Judge. I’ll find him for you.”

  “There was someone with Redbone when he broke Gibson out of jail, so there are three of them,” Judge Parker said.

  “I’ll make sure I have at least three bullets in my pistol,” John Henry said.

  Judge Parker laughed. “You’re my kind of marshal,” he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When John Henry arrived at the farm, he saw two women tied to the base of the windmill. One was older than the other so that he thought, but wasn’t sure, that they might be mother and daughter. Both were sitting at the base of the windmill with their heads to one side and their eyes closed. Lying on the ground in front of them were two bodies who might be father and son. The younger of the two looked to be around twelve or thirteen. He and the man had been shot multiple times, the blood around the bullet holes now baked black in the sun.

  John Henry went to the women, then knelt in front of them. The faces of both women were red and sunburned. He reached out to touch the older woman and she jumped.

  “You’re alive,” he said. Quickly, he cut her and the younger one loose.

  “Water,” the woman said, her voice scratchy.

  The irony was that they were less than five feet from a trough that was filled with water brought up by the windmill, but of cours
e they had not been able to get to it.

  John Henry offered his canteen, first to the woman, then the girl. Both drank deeply.

  “Who are you?” John Henry asked.

  “Elizabeth Boydkin. This is my daughter, Lillian. That’s my husband, Paul, and my son, Carl. Who are you?”

  “I’m Marshal John Henry Sixkiller. Are you up to telling me what happened here?”

  “There were three of them,” she said. “They stopped here yesterday at about lunch, asking for something to eat. I fixed a meal for them and they visited with us for a while. Then one of them, Redbone his name was, grabbed Carl and held a gun to Carl’s head. ‘I’ll be takin’ what cash you have now,’ he said. And he threatened to kill Carl if Paul didn’t give him the money.”

  “Did you have any money?”

  “We had about thirty dollars is all, but when Paul gave it to them, Redbone got mad, accused him of holding out on some of the money. He shot Paul, then he shot Carl. He demanded more money from me, but there wasn’t any more. I thought he was going to kill us, too, but instead he dragged Paul and Carl out here, then tied Lillian and me to the windmill so we could see them.”

  “Do you have a wagon and team? Or did they take your horses?”

  “They took Paul and Carl’s riding horses, but they didn’t take the plow horses, and they are the ones we use to pull the wagon.”

  “Do you have any neighbors nearby where you and your daughter might go until you’re feeling better?”

  “There is the Russell farm. Their place is about three miles from here. Mr. Russell has two grown sons. They could take care of burying Paul and Carl for us.”

  “I’ll hitch up the team.”

  “Give us a few minutes,” Mrs. Boydkin said. “We’ll need to get cleaned up a mite.”

  After John Henry dropped off the Boydkins at the Russell farm, he went back to the Boydkin farm to pick up the trail of Redbone and the two men who were with him. The trail was easy to follow because three of the horses had riders, and two didn’t.