The Ordways

by William Humphrey

  “I know the type,” said my grandfather.

  “Mr. Ordway, I doubt you do,” said Reverend Teague, “for he was not what he seemed to be.”

  “I first begun to get suspicious,” said Rags, “when he insisted on calling me mister. ‘Mr. Rags, here, let me polish them shoes for you—I’m good at that. Mr. Rags, would you mind swapping with me? This here is more pudding than I can eat.’ And so forth. ‘Just plain Rags will reach me, pardner,’ I said. But no, he—”

  “To cut a long story short,” said Reverend Teague, “one day at dinner Bill draws a long breath and says, ‘Gentlemen, I can’t go on like this no longer. I cannot take advantage of your trust and kindness no more. Every day of this deception adds to the load on my conscience. Gentlemen, for three weeks now I have enjoyed your company, your hospitality, your friendship—company too good for me, hospitality to which I had no right, friendship I did not deserve. Oh, gentlemen, I waited for you to see the truth for yourselves, but no, you are too trusting, too goodhearted. It never occurs to you that others can be any less open and aboveboard than yourselves. Gentlemen, look at me! Now do you see? No? Oh, Mr. Rags, Mr. Brown, for three weeks now you have unknowingly shared your bed and board with … Oh, how can I break it to you? Gentlemen, I am but fifteen-sixteenths Irish. The rest of me …”

  Well, the mayor and the entire board of aldermen and the county sheriff, the town constable, the whole shooting match had all come to apologize. Nothing like this had ever happened in their jail before and they could promise it would never happen again. It was an honest mistake, the sort that anybody might make, for the fellow was only one-sixteenth, after all, and it wasn’t always easy to spot them in cases like that. Well, apologies were all very well, but such a blow to a man’s self-respect was not to be healed by a few words, nor even a few scraps of meat in the chili con carne. It was Rags’s lawyer’s hope that by entering a plea of police brutality he would go scot-free on his charge of armed entry.

  “I thought all along that son of a bitch was awful friendly and obliging for a white man,” said Rags.

  “Well, he took me in, I don’t mind admitting,” said Reverend Teague. “I just thought he wasn’t any too bright. But he was as light-complected as Mr. Ordway here.”

  My grandfather assured them that he was what he seemed to be, at which they pshawed and said they had never doubted him for a moment. Privately he resolved to be a little less pliant and easygoing than he suspected himself of being ordinarily, so as to give them no cause to question their confidence in him.

  “Got to keep them in their place,” said Rags. “Let them in here, next thing you know one of them’s married to your sister.”

  After supper they played poker. My grandfather lost. Then the daylight faded and they made music in the gloaming. They sang of Lilian the dog-faced lady whose bark was worse than her bite. Of that hometown gal we all used to know who now was selling huh-what she used to give awayhay. Of the growing girl who to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw” swore she wasn’t gonna do it for a nickel any more, wasn’t gonna be just an ordinary whore, fifteen cents was gonna be her new price—give her a quarter and she’d do it twice.

  After turning in that night my grandfather heard from the bunk below a hssst! followed by, “Listen. It goes without saying that you never saw me before either. Tit for tat, eh, Lefty, old pal?”

  “Deal me in on that too,” said Reverend Teague from across the room.

  However, they came the very next day—the county sheriff, a Texas Ranger, and a U. S. marshal—with a dossier on Mr. Brown identifying him as the notorious Suds Folsom, and hauled him off to Austin, there to answer for his crimes.

  They came also that same day to interrogate the prisoner Ordway.

  “Tell them,” Rags counseled, “you won’t speak a word without a lawyer.”

  But my grandfather responded to their very first question.

  “What body?” he cried.

  He was remanded in custody and returned to his cell, charged, until such time as the corpus delicti should be found, with suspicion of murder.

  My grandfather’s court-appointed attorney, Mr. Sully Parker, was a man in his late nineties or early hundreds. Leaky with rheum, he was constantly hawking and spitting and blowing his nose, and his eyes were as liquid as a brace of oysters. He had lost all command of his voice, which sounded like a faulty long-distance telephone connection, choky and faint one moment, startlingly close and piercing the next. Printed, HIS conversATION WOULD have LOOKED LIKE this. In the course of his long legal practice he had heard as much as an elderly priest, and it was a question which Mr. Parker despised the human, or at least the Texan, animal more for, his law-breaking or his law enforcement.

  In the case of Texas vs. Ordway he was not encouraging. Not encouraging at all. He listened to his client’s protestations of innocence, and advised him to plead guilty. He too was curious as to the disposal of the body. My grandfather finally managed to convince him that he had not killed Will Vinson … yet. But then he went on to confide that all he wanted, really, was to recover his son. He went so far as to hint that it would be a source of remorse to him, enough to detract from his pleasure in later years as he watched his Ned grow to manhood, to have it on his conscience that he had orphaned Will Vinson’s three children. “ALL RIGHT, son,” said Mr. Parker. “No need to LAY IT ON.” He reminded his client that he had been overheard in that thicket, and that they had his pistol in evidence. He said he could just conceive the possibility of a jury accepting a man’s sworn statement that he intended not to kill a fellow who had stolen his wife, say, or a daughter. And perhaps had Mr. Ordway been from out of state, or even a local colored man, a jury might be suborned to believe that so long as he recovered his boy he would be content to let Will Vinson off with a good pistol-whipping. But to expect twelve idiots to believe that a native-born white fellow-Texan was not going to shoot the man who had stolen his first and only son was asking too much.

  But after a week’s search had failed to disclose any corpse, or any telltale evidence such as bloodstains on the suspect’s clothes or human hair on the butt of his unfired pistol; and as the state’s principal witness had only heard, not seen, a killing committed; and as the accused man stoutly maintained his innocence despite hours of questioning, the grand jury refused to hand down an indictment for murder. Instead he was charged with intent to kill, illegal possession of firearms, carrying a concealed weapon, disturbance of the peace, and interference with justice.

  My grandfather was brought before the presiding judge and bail was set. Five hundred dollars. But to the disappointment of the court’s hopes that he would make it, then skip (for Fort Worth in those days was quite a humble and backward place. Now, of course, all this has been taken care of, but in my grandfather’s day it stood in need of a good few civic improvements, such as: pavement, street lamps, sewage disposal, fire truck, water tower, dog pound, relief fund for sheriffs’ and tax collectors’ widows and orphans, et cetera, et cetera, and the town’s budget was sunk in arrears), the prisoner refused bail.

  Came the day of the trial. That he might make the worst possible appearance, though the reason given was that he might overpower the barber and seize his razor, the prisoner was denied a shave. Rags wished him luck, giving him a wink and a broad grin as he called him “Mr. Ordway.” He was then escorted under guard to the courtroom. There was a good crowd. Mr. Parker had a large following, so did Mr. Shively, the prosecuting attorney, and a match between the two always drew well. On a table to itself lay my grandfather’s pistol, a tag tied to the trigger guard. His Honor the judge arrived and court was declared opened. The veniremen were called and the opposing counsels used up their peremptory challenges on them. Then twelve good men and true, and without preconceptions in the case, were duly sworn and seated. The prisoner under advice of counsel pled guilty as charged. The sheriff was called by the prosecution and deposed the details of his arrest. The nut gatherer, one Dewey Tutwiler, recounted what h
e had overheard that day in the thicket. Three farmers, four housewives, a miller, a blacksmith, a wheelwright, and a surveyor were called to the stand, deposed that the accused had approached them seeking to learn the whereabouts of a man named Will Vinson, of whom he had grimly declared himself to be in pursuit. A witness who identified himself as Eber Smithwick, resident of Tarrant County, was called. He deposed that on October 29 of the preceding year he had been in Paris, Texas. Yes, he had seen somebody there that day who was now present in the courtroom. He pointed a finger at my grandfather. Where had he seen him? It was at a stump-speaking. He then recounted more or less accurately my grandfather’s unscheduled speech of that day, concluding with his guarantee that anybody who gave him information leading him to Will Vinson would need fear no reprisal.

  After each of these, “Your witness, sir,” said the prosecutor.

  And each time, “NO questions,” said Mr. Parker.

  The defendant was called and sworn. The prosecuting attorney got to his feet with a loud sigh, as though saddened by the prospect of the perjury before them all. He strode past the witness stand three or four times, nodding at my grandfather in passing, contriving thereby to suggest that he had seen him in that seat on former occasions. At last he stopped pacing, wheeled on the witness, and said:

  “Your name, please. Remember, you are under oath.”

  “Ordway. Sam … Samuel Ordway. That’s O-R-D—”

  “Place of residence—if you have one?”

  “Clarksville. Well, Mabry, actually. That’s over in Red River—”

  “Well? Which is it?”

  “Mabry.”

  “All right. Now we’ve got that cleared up, I hope. And now will you tell the court your version of what has brought you so far from home?”

  “I’m out here looking for my little boy.”

  “Looking for your little boy? Ran away from home, did he?”

  “No, sir, he did not run away. He wasn’t but two, going on three years old.”

  “That is young to run away,” the prosecutor agreed.

  “He was stolen from me. My neighbor took him. Will Vinson.”

  “Ah-hah!” said the prosecutor with a look meant to speak volumes. “And when did this occur?”

  “The seventh of last May.”

  “You reported it to the authorities at once, of course? I’ll have to ask you to speak so that you can be heard, please.”

  “Well, shortly. Not at once. After two or three days.”

  “Thank you. Now in future please face the jury and speak up when responding to questions. This child that was stolen from you, he was your only child?”

  “No.”

  “You have other sons?”

  “Sons, no. Three little girls. Another child on the—”

  “Ah, daughters. The stolen child was your only son, that is correct? Fair to assume, I suppose, that he was his father’s favorite?”

  “No, sir, it’s fair to assume no such thing. I’m one father that tries not to play favorites among my children.”

  “You wish the jury to believe that you valued your only son exactly as much, neither more nor less, than his three sisters?”

  “Well, if anything,” said my grandfather, “I’m afraid little Ned was sort of neglected. You see, I …”

  “That is a very interesting admission,” said the prosecutor. “In other words, it took a man to steal your boy to teach you to appreciate him?”

  “I can’t say I’m proud to have to admit it, but as I’m under oath, there is something in what you say.”

  “A very interesting admission. Thank you. I ask you now,” he said, taking up the pistol from the table, “to look at this. Have you ever seen this weapon before?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Did you purchase—or in whatever way acquire it—recently? With this trip in mind?”

  “No, I’ve always had it.”

  “You have always had it?”

  “Yes, it was my mother’s.”

  “Your mother’s! Well! Did you say your mother’s? Hmm. Perhaps we will go into that later. In any case, you brought this weapon from home with you? You took it with you in setting out on your quest? With what object in mind?”

  But my grandfather had seen this question coming and promptly replied, “I thought I ought to have one. Traveling out here with money on me.”

  The courtroom erupted with a mixture of hilarity and outraged civic pride. Now he had the audience against him, and from the looks on their faces he had cooked his goose with the jurors.

  “Tell the court,” said the prosecuting attorney with a smirk, “exactly where you were between the hours of twelve noon and one p.m. on last December twenty-ninth.”

  “Well, I was where he” (indicating Mr. Tutwiler) “said I was, in that thicket here on the edge of town. Only …”

  “And did you or did you not say while in that thicket, as the witness has testified he heard you say, and I quote, Will Vinson, prepare now to meet your maker? Unquote.”

  “Well, yes. But—”

  “And did you or did you not say at the same time, quote, You thought I’d never find you, didn’t you? But I was too smart for you. Not all the Texas Rangers could find you, but I found you, and now you won’t get away. You have come to the end of your trail. Unquote. Did you say that?”

  “Yes,” said my grandfather, very red in the face.

  “And did you also say on that occasion …?”

  But my grandfather could hardly bear to recall the rest of his own words which the prosecutor had quoted at him. He had to sit there and listen to himself boast and rant and rave and threaten and pretend to beat and stomp and murder Will Vinson, then had to confess to a crowded courtroom full of men that he had been all alone in that thicket, and that he was (had to say this three times before the prosecutor was satisfied that everyone had heard it) “just practicing.”

  And with that the state rested its case.

  The judge directed Mr. Parker to proceed with calling his first witness.

  “Your HONOR,” said Mr. Parker, “the DEFENSE will call NO WITNESSES. We REST OUR case.”

  The judge had to pound his gavel and threaten to clear the courtroom. Then he said, “Mr. Parker, the bench, mindful of your long experience before the bar, hesitates to instruct you. However, we would be remiss in our duty did we not point out to you that you may be putting your client in jeopardy by your—”

  “IF my client WISHES OTHER counsel he is free to SEEK IT,” said Mr. Parker. “Meanwhile, I shall CONDUCT HIS DEFENSE in my own MANNER.”

  The prosecuting attorney began his summation to the jury. He said that in a case of murder accompli, so to speak, it was necessary to establish a corpus delicti, to prove that somebody had existed, and had, through violence, ceased to do so. To establish a motive and to prove the accused guilty of the crime. In a case of intent to kill it was necessary to provide a prospective corpus delicti. This they had in the corpus of one Will Vinson, present whereabouts unknown. The accused’s motive for the crime had been amply established. The murder weapon, or the intended murder weapon, had been introduced in evidence, the prisoner had acknowledged it to be his.

  To accuse a man of intent to kill, said the prosecutor, was to accuse him of intending the gravest sort of murder. For the law, he said, distinguished three kinds or degrees of homicide. The gentlemen of the jury were not lawyers, but no doubt they knew, as it was common knowledge, that first-degree murder was the most severely punishable and third-degree murder the most leniently punishable, with second-degree murder standing midway between. In third-degree murder death was held to ensue upon a chance encounter between the two principals, to have been committed in the heat of ungovernable passion, and with whatever weapon lay to hand, whereas first-degree murder was premeditated and done in cold blood. Roughly speaking, if two men had a falling out on a downtown street corner and came to blows and one of them tore up a paving stone and hit the other over the head with it and the victim
died of the blow, that was murder in the third degree. If they parted and one fellow then whipped out his knife and took out after the other and caught him down in the next block and stabbed him then and there, that was murder in the second degree. But if he went home and brooded on it overnight and next day loaded his gun and took a streetcar and rode across town and took aim and shot his victim through the window as he sat eating his breakfast, then that was murder in the first degree, premeditated and with malice aforethought.

  Now the defendant in this case had been brooding for some nine months on his revenge. He had come halfway across the state of Texas on his grim mission. He had brought with him from home a fully loaded weapon merely to heft which required premeditation. He had been overheard and had confessed to rehearsing in preparation for his act of retribution here in the purlieus of their own peaceful and law-abiding community. This was surely intent to murder in the first degree, and for such determined bloody-mindedness nothing short of the maximum penalty under the law was thinkable: a stiff jail sentence, a heavy fine, an order of restraint, a bond to keep the peace, confiscation of the man’s weapon, and payment of court costs.

  He cautioned the jury against any attempt on the part of the counsel for the defense to claim for his client the extenuation of “cooling time.”* That the accused was an injured man no one would deny. To steal a man’s son was no light provocation. But nine months was time enough for any man to cool down, especially one who had admitted on the stand that it had taken the theft of his son to teach him to appreciate him.

  He also foresaw and warned against the possibility that counsel for the defense might take a different line, and raise the question of the posture and attitude of the intended victim at the moment of the commission of the act of which his client stood accused of the intent. In other words, he might suggest that it was reasonable to doubt that Will Vinson was just going to stand and let his client shoot at him like a bottle on a stump. That what his client was guilty of at most was intent to kill in self-defense. This, he cautioned the jury, lay in the realm of pure conjecture. None of them knew Will Vinson. None could predict what he might or might not do. They were not there to try Will Vinson. Moreover, on the basis of the evidence and the testimony which they had heard, there was no reason whatsoever to suppose that Samuel Ordway was the sort of man to give Will Vinson a fighting chance to draw and defend himself. This was not the way of the Samuel Ordways.