“But not like this,” Ivy said. “This was not responsible behavior. Jay did not exercise self-control. Where was the respect for individual life? I am just sick about this.”
“Let’s go back to the house,” Aaron said. “The boys will be home soon.”
They turned back, dropping down toward the creek for a few yards, then heading again toward the house. Ivy always liked to walk in different paths when she was in the pasture so as not to flatten the grass, which was so dry it crackled under her feet as the brittle stems broke under each footstep. They walked across the second season of grass, grown in the spring and browned in the summer. Dead leaves from the previous fall, matted in the earth during winter, were covered with mud and cattle hoof prints, and had hardened into the cracking soil. A new crop of leaves would soon be falling. August was an awkward in-between time, buried between the green vibrancy of spring and the orange calm of fall. To Ivy, the deadness of the earth under a barren heat was a time for testing, when God demanded a sacrifice before bestowing the blessings of fall. She wondered if the cool October evenings this year would be truly refreshing.
“What will our family say?” she asked after a few steps. “Jay will wear this shame forever, and so will we. I don’t know, Aaron. I just don’t know.”
They walked on to the house in silence.
Margaret Chambers liked watching the steam-driven trains that rolled past Nickerly, scattering animals and rearranging life on the prairie. She walked along the tracks, in spite of her mother’s many warnings against it, and felt the pull of the unknown that the railroad inspired. The tracks were like a hole in the sky that let people in and out of central Kansas. First there were the builders, the crews that noisily swept across the plains leaving the iron trail in their wake. Then came the drifters, always men, jumping the new trains for a free ride west. They came to the Chambers house and offered a day’s work for some food, then moved on. But they left their stories behind, often involving the search for a second chance or at least a new dream. The people of Nickerly didn’t fear these men, but they did fear their dreams. The hoboes, as they were beginning to be called, spread endless tales of adventures in distant places. In Nickerly, two boys in one year gave up the farm life and disappeared down the tracks. Margaret had no intention of jumping on a train, but she walked the tracks often, wondering about the changes that trains and automobiles were making in their lives. Now the tracks were a refuge, and she walked slowly, stepping on one cross tie after another, wondering how she should handle the swirl of decisions she was now facing.
Margaret thought about the two men she had just met, W.W. McArdle and Temple Dandridge, trying to judge their advice. She had never met a practicing lawyer, let alone a prosecutor. She wondered about his motives. Did he really care about her? Or was this just a chance to make a name for himself?
Margaret approached the trestle over the Saline River and realized she must be a couple of miles from the farm. She was conscious of the time required to get home before dark. It must be about five in the afternoon, which would give her plenty of time. She sat on a plank near the end of the trestle so her feet could dangle over the edge. Margaret was moved to melancholy by the cottonwood trees along the riverbank below her. Their white trunks bent and swayed in the river breeze, fluttering their leaves with a soft rush of noise. She knew these men must be punished, but the thought of sending them to jail tore at her. It would be easier if she knew their motives. It just didn’t seem possible that they could have wanted to hurt her, yet they did.
Margaret rested her head on the single guardrail at the end of the trestle. The guardrail was built after John Swartz’s cow was picked up by a train and thrown in the river. Margaret thought it stupid. Anyone that far onto the trestle was already in trouble, especially a cow. But the rail allowed her to rest her head on her arm and think.
Someone was coming down the track, and she could hear the tapping on the rail before she heard the voice.
Ileen approached cautiously. “Mom sent me to look for you.”
Margaret raised her head. “Hi, Sis,” she said casually. “Don’t come out here. I’m ready to go.”
“Are you alright, Margaret?” Ileen asked. “Mom’s worried that you might be depressed or just wander off.”
“I’m fine,” Margaret said. “Isn’t it pretty out here?” Margaret held the guardrail for balance, tucked her feet under her, and stood. Ileen waited and took her arm, guiding her back down the track.
“Mom’s worried that you’ll have to tell about the tar at the trial, about your clothes being torn.”
“Don’t worry,” Margaret comforted her. “I can handle that. It’s just that I don’t know what will happen. I can’t live here anymore. I don’t know these people.”
“You mean the boys,” Ileen said, referring to the tar party.
“No, I mean everyone. Nothing is the same,” Margaret said. “No matter what happens with the trial, Herbie and Ed and Easy have already won. I want Mr. McArdle to get them for it. But what then? I’ll have to leave.”
Ileen took Margaret’s hand, and they moved off the ties to solid ground where the walking was easier. Ileen pulled her sister close as they started for home. She could see that Margaret’s eyes were red from crying.
“I’m angry,” Margaret blurted out. A tear escaped and ran down the side of her nose. “What right do they have to steal my life? They’ve held me up to ridicule. I can’t go to church. I can’t go back to school. What right do they have?”
“We love you,” Ileen said quietly. “We’ll take care of you.”
“I know. I know,” Margaret replied, rubbing her wet cheek on the sleeve of her blouse. “But I can take care of myself. I just need to get through this.”
Chapter Thirteen
Judge Thomas Crier had a stern look about him as he strode to the courthouse to hear the guilty plea of Herbert Forchet. He had spent the previous evening poring over the arrest warrants in what the press had already named the Tar Party Case. He reminded himself to be impartial and to maintain that stoic façade that had made him famous in Nickerly County. But he could already sense the community’s anxiety about the lurid testimony expected in this case. He was a man of control. He intended to make today’s court proceeding swift and certain.
Judge Crier had studied the facts of the case carefully, rendering in his own mind the culpability of various members of the tar party, with a view toward how he might sentence Herbert Forchet. Mr. Forchet had pled guilty to the charge of taking Miss Chambers to a desolate location for the purpose of assault. In exchange for naming all the participants in the scheme, the county attorney had promised some leniency. Herbie Forchet hoped that meant an absence of jail time. It would be up to the county attorney to differentiate the charges between those who actually tarred Miss Chambers and those who stood and watched, but Judge Crier knew that his sentence in this first case would signal to the community his views on the matter, and he intended them to be harsh.
As he sat in his third-floor chambers just beside the courtroom, Judge Crier glanced out the window, expecting to see a few residents of Nickerly walking up the street toward the courthouse. Every court proceeding attracted a few regulars, usually the town lawyers, of which there were a half dozen, and often the family members and close friends of those involved in the case. He had read the stories of the “tar party” in the Kansas City and Topeka newspapers, and he was not immune to the town gossip about the young schoolteacher. He figured the main trial set for mid-November would draw a sizable crowd, but today’s proceeding involved only a statement by the defendant and the sentencing.
Thus he was surprised to see—with more than half an hour before the proceeding, and the doors to the courtroom still closed—that a sizable crowd had collected in the yard. The crowd appeared to include half the men in Nickerly and a few strangers as well. Judge Crier surmised that most of them wanted a glimpse of the Chambers girl, even though she would not be in court today. The rest just wa
nted to hear the charges. Still, maintaining order would be more difficult than usual. He hadn’t had a full courtroom since a Nickerly County farmer had killed his neighbor in a dispute over fences nearly five years earlier. In that case, the two families involved had filled the seats, and they got to arguing so violently that Judge Crier had to clear the courtroom. Even so, there was little newspaper attention to the trial, and the community seemed to conclude that both sides were at fault. They didn’t condone the murder, but they seemed to understand its inevitability, and since the murderer was eighty-seven years old, most people assumed the old man would die in prison anyway. The people of Nickerly had reasoned all this out even before the trial, so it didn’t cause much fuss.
When Judge Crier entered the courtroom to hear the Forchet plea, the bailiff shouted, “All rise,” as was the custom, and the audience remained standing until the judge was seated. Judge Crier looked over his reading glasses to survey the room. The audience was entirely male. Of course, children under eighteen were not allowed in court, but it was still surprising that not one woman was present in the courtroom. Not even the mother of the defendant. Judge Crier also realized that at least half the audience was unknown to him. He had spent most of his life in Nickerly County as a lawyer and rancher before being appointed district judge some eighteen years ago. He not only knew everyone in Nickerly County, he knew most everyone in the neighboring counties as well. Indeed, he and Mrs. Crier never missed a Sunday in the congregation of the First Presbyterian Church, and every person named in this case was known to him personally.
Judge Crier had unusually high cheekbones, accentuating a long angular face as hard as limestone, and not structured for smiling. Sixty-three years had carved deep crevasses in his face, and a constant frown reflected the seriousness of his life. His hair was swept from the left directly across the top of his head, thick enough to hide any approaching baldness, but not quite thick enough to hide his age. His complexion was light from years of sitting in a courtroom darkened by the heavy walnut wood of the bench, but it still showed the harshness of the plains that registered itself on the face of every Kansan who had spent his youth in the extreme winds and snows of open fields. Judge Crier was first and foremost a Kansas farmer. He was also tough, some said as tough as an old bird with a new twig.
“Herbert Everett Forchet,” he began sternly, “you have pled guilty to taking Miss Margaret Chambers from her home in Nickerly County to a desolate location in said county for the purpose of assault and the application of tar to her body. You did so knowingly and with premeditation. You intentionally put her person in great danger without even understanding the consequences. This court is inclined to treat this infraction with great severity.”
Several gasps spread across the room.
“If the defendant has a statement, let him give it at this time,” Judge Crier stated.
Herbie Forchet, who had spent his life in the middle of a large French family, or in a barbershop where friendships and conversation were central to his success, slowly rose from his chair. He stood alone. It seemed he had been alone since the first invitation to join the tar party. In the weeks since his arrest and incarceration for assaulting Margaret Chambers, he had been wrestling with some futility over the reason for his involvement and for the charges against him, especially since he had not assaulted the victim. But the reality of his situation had slowly fixed in his mind, and he realized he had few options.
Herbie faced the judge. He had gone over this speech last night in his jail cell with Paul Rinker, his attorney from Ellsworth. Rinker had advised him to apologize to Miss Chambers and to her family with as much sincerity as possible. Herbie assured him that task would not be difficult. He was sorry he had ever gotten involved in this whole mess, and he knew how cowardly his actions must appear to his friends and family.
“Your Honor,” he began, with just a small break in his voice, “I am the humblest of men today. I know what I did was wrong. I don’t know why I did it. I always liked Margaret.”
Herbie’s words started with a sense of formality, as Rinker had instructed. But they quickly gave way to the fearful emotions of the moment. Herbie realized he would probably go to jail.
“I’m sorry, Judge. I’m so sorry,” he reiterated as tears began to stream down his face. “I didn’t want to hurt her. Please don’t send me to jail.”
Mr. Rinker, sitting directly at Herbie’s elbow, tugged at his client’s coattail, signaling that he had probably said enough. Herbie collapsed in his chair. The courtroom was still, as everyone waited for the next move. Even the judge said nothing, as if waiting to be sure that Herbie was finished. Finally, as every spectator examined the judge’s face trying to detect a sympathetic glance or a disapproving frown, Judge Crier folded his arms and placed his elbows on the bench.
He spoke quickly. “Herbert Forchet. I hereby sentence you to a fine of five hundred dollars and one year in the State Prison in Topeka.”
Another gasp echoed through the room. Someone uttered above the others, “Holy Cow.”
Judge Crier stood almost immediately, turned on his heel, and disappeared into his chambers. The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes. Most people had expected a sentence of thirty days, or perhaps just a fine and probation. Sitting in the back of the room, Ed Garvey Sr. grew red with rage. He wanted to spit in disgust on the floor of the court, but decided better of it. He swallowed hard and got up to leave. Temple Dandridge was sitting just behind Garvey and stood when he did, hearing him utter to all those around him, “My boy will never spend a day in jail. That judge can rot in hell.”
Chapter Fourteen
Something had clearly happened to Easy Tucker. Ever since the night of the tar party, he seemed to work harder. Not longer hours because that would be impossible, but at a more feverish pace. Even his neighbors were beginning to notice. There were some whispers in the community about Easy’s gloves, although gloves weren’t that uncommon, especially with all the fencing that was going up lately. Digging holes for the limestone posts was a callused undertaking, not to mention handling the spools of barbed wire that had to be loaded onto wagons at the train station. It took two strong men to run a post through the center of each spool, lift it high enough to roll it into the back of the wagon, then climb into the wagon and drag the spool on the bed to make room for more. Several spools were needed to run three strands of fence around even a small field of fifty or so acres. One mistake in handling the wire could put a long gash in your hand or arm. Gloves weren’t a failsafe protection, but they were a basic essential. In addition to stringing the wire, just handling the posts or chopping wood for the approaching winter would be adequate reason for wearing gloves. But still, people noticed that Easy held his arm in a funny way, as if he was tensing his hand muscles. Every so often he grabbed one hand hard with the other.
It was late in the afternoon when Tiny Tucker brought the buggy home from the first Civic Improvement Association meeting since the arrests. She pulled the mare up to just a few feet from the woodpile where Easy was chopping wood for the winter. She brought the rig to a halt, but didn’t lay the reins along the mare’s rump as she might normally do. Instead, she held the reins tight in her left hand, adjusted her bonnet so she could see Easy without obstruction, and said, “Forchet was sentenced to a year.”
Easy looked up, but said nothing. Tiny shook the reins ever so slightly and turned the horse toward the hitching post by the front of the house. She knew Easy would put the horse and rig in the barn later.
Easy had just started slashing a log, and he tore into it with renewed determination. First from one angle, then another. The chips flew, and the work felt good, as if each whack would drain another drop of sobriety from his being, leaving various parts of his body numb with exhaustion. He wanted numbness. He wanted not to feel his arms and legs, especially his right hand. He ached so badly to be rid of it, to put the itch on his finger in another place, to free his mind from the knowledge that held his f
inger captive. But no matter how numbing his work, the itch always returned.
As the final log cracked under his ax, Easy rubbed his gloved finger against his leg, and it made no difference. “One year in jail,” Tiny had said. The thought left him weak. He could not raise the ax. He set it on the ground and felt himself engulfed in an enormous cloud of hopelessness. He let the ax topple over as his eyes filled with tears.
He walked toward the house and turned slowly to the task of caring for the mare, unwrapping the reins from the post and leading the horse quietly to the barn. He tied her to a post where years of experience indicated the buggy would fit fully inside. He closed the outside door, sliding it along the overhead rail until it almost filled the opening, then slipped his body through the open crack and pushed the door the last few inches. Even with the doors closed, the barn had suffered enough rot in its timbers to let in shafts of evening light.
Easy leaned against the milking stanchion and rested, letting the tension release, thinking about what Tiny had just said. A year in jail. First, it meant a trial, with maybe hundreds of people watching and listening as someone described his cowardice—wearing a woman’s bonnet, hiding behind the skirt of a woman, hoping not to be recognized. And then it would come out somehow, maybe from Margaret Chambers herself, that he had ripped her clothes, and then, oh God, had touched her breast, and he could never face his church again. He could never ask God’s forgiveness again. The feel of her flesh had already led to nightmares, and worse, desire. He had felt himself in the night and knew that in spite of all his shame, the lust was there, and he was too weak to banish its ugly portent of life in the future. It hurt. It ached. It drew him. It ran his life. As his tears turned to anger, he knew he must rid himself of this curse, strike it from his body, drive it from his mind with the force of his will. Easy screamed at his own agony. He stumbled to the corner where he kept his axes and machetes, and picked one with a short handle. Turning furiously to the stump in the corner of a stall, he tore off the glove on his right hand, placed his little finger on the stump, and swung the hand ax with a purpose and direction that could not be stopped by all the angels in heaven. He clenched his teeth but did not scream as the small hatchet tore through his finger. It didn’t move an inch. It lay still on the stump as the blood started to gush from Easy’s hand.
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