by Robert Knott
“I can’t tell you, no. But like I say, I don’t know of anything underhanded here, I don’t, and also like I told you before, I was not so certain this was not Roger’s doing.”
“You still feel that way?”
“Look, as far as I know this LaCroix was as legit as can be, so I have to believe what was said. Seemed to be convincing and earnest, a normal kind of guy and calm as hell until he was attacked. And then Black going after him like he did gained the fella a shitload of juror sympathy.”
“And you don’t think the chief wants to see Black hung because it will clear his family name as well as his conscience,” I said.
“There has to be truth to that. That would be what any man would want for his family,” Banes said, then held up his index finger, “especially if it were in fact a valid truth.”
“Was anybody else fucking Ruth Ann that you know of?” Virgil said.
“No,” he said.
Virgil nodded a bit.
“If there is anything I can help you with,” Banes said, “I will.”
“One thing that would be helpful,” Virgil said.
“What’s that?”
“If you do find Black before we do, it’d be a good idea that he’s not accidently strung up,” Virgil said.
Banes nodded a little and held up his glass.
We backed down the stairs and moved on.
“He’s straight,” I said.
“Seems,” Virgil said.
We walked on up the street and crossed through the alley to Virgil’s place.
I was thinking about seeing Daphne as we walked. I thought about sleeping with her again tonight and feeling her warm body next to me. I thought about maybe sleeping with her for a good while, not just tonight but other nights to follow. Most of the women I had any kind of sustained relationship with had either been whores, or in my dreams, or disappearing fortune tellers.
The light was dim when we entered the house. There was but one lamp burning and it was atop Allie’s piano. We figured Allie and Daphne to be asleep.
When we stepped inside, though, we knew right away something was not right. Something was most definitely wrong. The first thing that stuck out was Allie and the way she was sitting.
She was at her piano, but not facing the piano. She was sitting straight back on the bench with her back to the keys. Sitting directly across from her was Daphne. She was clutching a pillow to her chest as if it were a shield. Then I saw the problem. I saw it the same moment that Virgil did.
Sitting in the dark corner was Bill Black holding a pistol in one hand and a bottle of Virgil’s Kentucky whiskey in the other. The pistol was pointed straight out between Daphne and Allie.
“We been waiting for you,” he said.
70.
Put the gun down,” Virgil said.
“No.”
“Put it down,” Virgil said.
He shook his head and took a swig of the Kentucky.
“No.”
“You got no reason to do this,” Virgil said.
Black laughed.
“Bullshit,” he said.
The bottle in Black’s hand was nearly empty and it was clear he was beyond drunk.
“You are not in charge here,” he said.
Both Allie and Daphne sat still, rigid with fear.
“I got no choice other than this,” Black said.
“Sure you do,” Virgil said.
“Not really,” Black said.
“Put the gun down,” Virgil said.
He smiled.
“You’re not in charge here,” he said.
“Do like I tell you.”
He shook his head.
“No. Besides, this going the wrong way here,” he said, waving the gun, “has no real impact on me, because . . . because . . . you see, I’m a dead man.”
“No reason to hurt someone else,” I said.
He smiled.
“Everybody thinks I killed that bitch.”
“Right now, all you need to do,” Virgil said, “is give me the gun.”
“I did not do it,” he said.
“What do you want, Black?”
“I want to be free.”
“Let me help you.”
“How can you help me?”
“Put the gun down and let’s talk about this.”
“Fuck talking,” he said. “Look where talking has got me.”
“Why this, Black?” I said. “This can’t help you.”
“I’d rather hang than be on the run for something I did not do.”
“Let us help you.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Virgil moved a little toward him.
“Just give me the gun.”
Black quickly pointed the gun at Virgil.
“Back!” he said.
Allie and Daphne jumped.
“Easy,” Virgil said. “Just be easy.”
“Back,” he said.
“Okay,” Virgil said.
Virgil moved back a bit.
“Bill,” Daphne said. “Don’t do this. Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable? I should have married you when I had the chance,” he said. “I fucked up.”
“Give him the gun, Bill,” she said. “Don’t do this.”
Virgil nodded and reached out a little.
“Just stay the fuck back.”
“You’re drunk,” Virgil said. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“The hell you say.”
“Let’s go about this another way,” Virgil said.
“I want the goddamn truth to be told.”
“Okay,” Virgil said. “Good.”
Black’s words were slurry. He was bleary-eyed and drunk tired.
“That fucker lied.”
“Okay,” Virgil said
Black started to cry. He looked down a little.
Virgil moved slightly but Black raised the gun up.
“Goddamn it,” he said.
Virgil backed away with his hands up and clear from his sides.
“Okay, okay, let’s just settle down here . . . settle down . . .” Virgil said.
After a moment Black seemed to relax a little.
“That’s it,” Virgil said. “Okay . . . okay . . . so . . . where is Truitt?”
“Oh, good,” he said.
“Good?”
“You did not catch him? He got out,” he said. “Got away, I’m fucking glad of that. I was uncertain. I hope he can keep running and never get caught. Me on the other hand, I have no intention of running. I only got out to prove I did not do this.”
Black’s head lowered, and when it did Daphne threw the pillow she had clutched to her chest at him and Virgil charged on him fast and grabbed the gun. Virgil’s force knocked Black from the chair, and as the two men fell the gun went off. Allie screamed as the flash kicked from the barrel out into the dark room. The noise was deafening.
71.
It was not Sunday, but church bells sounded out across Appaloosa. Fact was, it was Friday, the day before the July Fourth grand opening of the Maison de Daphne casino.
The bells were not for celebration, however; they were nothing other than the respectful reminder that it was execution day for Boston Bill Black, a common solemn announcement for prayer and remembrance.
Black was back behind bars, awaiting execution. There was one good cell remaining in the jail and it was now, for obvious reasons, minus the bed frame.
But Black was resolved now. He had remained quiet after the incident at Virgil and Allie’s. He was now a man riddled with shame and remorse, and he had no fight.
The shot he fired hit Daphne, and though it was not fatal, it was serious enough for her to require surgery and bed rest
for recovery. The bullet hit her just under her arm, where it remained until Doc Burris operated to remove it.
After the incident at Virgil’s home with Black, Virgil was convinced more than ever of Black’s innocence. He wanted to have Callison reopen the case and reevaluate the findings against Black, but the judge would have none of it. Especially now that Black had escaped and shot Daphne. Virgil explained to Callison the shot that hit Daphne was accidental and not intentional, but Virgil’s offering fell on deaf ears and Callison closed the book.
So the long and sordid ordeal was nearly over, and as Valentine had said, the sick idea of having the execution on July 3 remained a constant.
It was a beautiful day. The air was crisp and it had cooled off some since the rain. I listened to the bells as they rang and rang while I walked to the hospital.
When I entered I saw Buck at the end of the hall pushing a broom. He stopped and looked to me as the bells continued to ring. He stood there, then nodded a little as if he were saying hello, then he went back to sweeping.
Allie was sitting next to Daphne’s bed with Hollis Pritchard when I entered the hospital room.
“Everett,” Allie said.
Daphne turned, looking to me.
“Oh, Everett,” Daphne said as she held out her hand. “The bells?”
“I know,” I said.
“So sad,” she said as tears welled up in her eyes.
“Oh,” Allie said, dabbing a tear from her eye with a handkerchief, “Must they, Everett?”
“Be over soon enough,” I said.
“I have to say,” Daphne said, “I’m thankful I am not out today, on the street. I don’t think I could take it.”
We listened while the bells tolled. The sound echoed hauntingly throughout the hospital. After a moment they stopped and we were all silent.
Then Pritchard said, “Doc Burris said you can get out tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said. “The opening . . .”
“Forget that,” he said. “This timing is . . .”
“I know,” she said.
“You just rest,” he said.
“The doctor said I could briefly attend,” she said.
Pritchard shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Not necessary.”
“But it’s my namesake,” she said.
“Clearly enough,” he said, “and if I did not need to be there I would not. This is not a time for celebration . . . I know I don’t want it. It’s most unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pritchard, I just . . .”
He shook his head and got to his feet. He walked closer to the bed.
“My God, dear, there is nothing to be sorry about,” he said, shaking his head. “This is all just awful.”
“I know . . .” she said.
“I would postpone this, but there is too much in motion now,” he said.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
“I will see you tomorrow at some point.”
“Okay,” she said.
He smiled at Allie and me, then walked out of the room. She watched after him for a moment, then looked to me.
“I’m so glad you are here,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“She looks simply beautiful,” Allie said, “don’t you think, Everett?”
“I do.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done if it weren’t for the both of you.”
She looked to me and smiled weakly.
“So, when is this going to happen, Everett?”
I looked at my watch.
“About an hour from now.”
She nodded, then looked away, out the window.
72.
Thirty minutes prior to the hanging, Virgil and I walked to the gallows, and when we rounded the corner it appeared the whole town was waiting to witness the hanging of Boston Bill Black.
“Good goddamn,” Virgil said. “Don’t these folks have something better to do than to watch a man die?”
“Guess not.”
We walked past the Gallows Door Cantina and Eloise looked up and offered a wave just like the one she gave me in my dream, but this was no dream, not this time, this time it was real and it was happening.
The Gallows Door Cantina was crowded with happy and upbeat beer drinkers. It was a celebration for people to gather for a hanging. Hangings had become as much a spectator event as horse racing and boxing.
When we got close, we could see the Denver contingent standing near the gallows.
“Looks like the Coloradoans got here good and early so they had a good spot,” I said.
“Does,” Virgil said shaking his head.
Sitting in a covered buggy on a rise just behind the gallows was Judge Callison. He was sitting back under the buggy’s shade, smoking a cigar.
Atop the gallows stood the executioner and the two main Appaloosa ministers, one from the Methodist church and the other from the Baptist church.
Virgil and I walked around the crowd and moved up the rise and stood near the judge.
He looked over to us and waited a moment before he said anything.
“You did all you could do, fellas,” he said. “You are both good lawmen.”
We looked to him but didn’t say anything. There was really nothing to say.
“What we do is never easy,” he said.
Again, we said nothing.
“I been at this for almost fifty years now . . .”
He puffed on his cigar for a moment, looking at the gallows.
“Tried my first murder case when I was just twenty-one. I defended a man I knew was innocent. I would have bet my life on it. He convinced me of it but not the jury. I lost the case and he was sentenced to hang. I was sure heartbroken, thought I had really let him and his family down. I damn near quit right then and there. When he walked to the gallows he looked to the parents of the fellow he was accused of murdering and said, ‘I would do it again if I had the chance’ . . . That was my first hanging . . .”
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Here he comes.”
The massive crowd turned to see him and everyone started to chatter.
Coming up the Street was Boston Bill Black. He wore shackles on his hands and feet and was being escorted by Book on one side and Chastain on the other, and for extra precaution, every deputy that Appaloosa employed flanked them.
Black stood a full foot and a half taller than Chastain, Book, and the deputies. Looking at him like this reminded me of the story of Hercules as they approached. He was walking with his head up and was looking about, making sure everyone got a good look at him.
The chatter got louder as the crowd parted, making way for them, and when they got to the gallows steps the boisterous group began to jeer.
“Here we go,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
We watched as Black climbed the steps. When he got to the top, the ministers held up their hands to quiet the crowd. After a bit, the crowd simmered. The Baptist minister moved forward a bit.
“Anything you wish to impart,” he said. “Any last words?”
Black looked at the people, then looked to the executioner.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said.
The crowd erupted with excitement as the executioner moved forward and guided Black toward the gallows door. He positioned Black where he wanted and started to put a hood over Black’s head.
“No hood,” Black said. “I want to see the faces.”
The crowd erupted loudly and began shouting, “Hang him, hang him . . .”
The executioner tossed the hood to the side, then reached up, grabbed the noose, and placed it over Black’s head. He tightened it around Black’s neck, then walked over to the lever. He put his hand on the lever.
“Fuck,” I said. “Look!”
Sliding recklessly around the corner came Valentine’s prison wagon being pulled by his sweat-soaked mules, Magellan and Columbus.
Valentine was on his feet with the reins in one hand and a bullwhip in the other. He was swinging the whip around and popping above the heads of his mules.
“Haw!” Valentine shouted, “HAW!”
“Hold up!” Virgil called out loudly. “Hold up!”
The executioner took his hand off the lever, and within a moment Magellan and Columbus parted the crowd and Valentine pulled back on the reins, stopping the prison wagon directly in front of the gallows in a cloud of dust.
Virgil and I moved forward, and when the dust settled we saw sitting in the back of the prison wagon Lawrence LaCroix.
73.
The remainder of July 3 was spent in the judge’s chambers with Lawrence LaCroix.
LaCroix was still hurting from the beating he received from Black. His arm was in a sling and his leg was in a splint. His eyes were dark from having a broken nose and busted jaw, and it was painful for him to speak, but he was talking fairly clearly out of the corner of his mouth.
“Let me get this straight,” the judge said. “You are not British?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not . . .”
Callison shook his head and looked over to Virgil, Valentine, and me.
“Where are you from, Mr. LaCroix?”
“I was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”
“Actually, let me ask you first before we get into more insanity, what is your real name?”
“Ben Salter.”
Callison nodded.
“Ben Salter?”
“Yes.”
“We can believe that?”
He nodded.
“We can assume you have no reason to lie about that?”
“No reason.”
Callison shook his head.
“And, according to Mr. Pell here,” Callison said with a glance to Valentine, “you have no idea who paid you to lie?”
“No,” he said.
Callison looked at him for a moment, then sat back in his chair.
“You are a worthless piece of shit,” the judge said. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
