Trial and Escape

The trial was quick: three days, including empaneling the jury, which took two full days because few adult Caucasian males would risk selection by appearing at the courthouse, which wasn’t actually a building, but rather a vacant lot upon which a canvas awning had been erected. The official courthouse was undergoing repairs from a recent fire, the origin of which had been pronounced “suspicious” by the town’s newspaper publisher, who wrote regular editorials accusing radical abolitionists of attempting to subvert local efforts to expand slavery into Kansas territory. The border region was about to be bloodied over the issue, and the newspaperman wanted to ensure himself a prominent place in the carnage.

The wheels of Missouri justice turned thusly: since the boy would not speak his name he was identified as John Doe in the papers of indictment. In fact, he had not uttered a word since he was jailed, which became the basis of an inept defense delivered by a Methodist minister from Ohio, a long-winded mynah bird who just happened to be on his way to California, and who claimed to have studied law prior to entering the seminary. For a five-dollar court-paid fee the reverend volunteered to represent the boy, whom he argued was so incapacitated mentally that he could not possibly have the strength of mind to plan, let alone accomplish such a dastardly act. According to the preacher the citizens of Missouri would be risking their eternal souls by finding him guilty.

On the final day the court magistrate shook his head at the preacher’s incompetence as he brought the gavel down to end testimony. Fifteen minutes later the jury announced their verdict.
Guilty as charged.
You’ll hang in Springfield, said the judge.
God rest your tortured soul, boy.
In response to the boy’s inadequate representation the court withheld payment from the preacher, who protested his claim for three days until finally the mayor of Westport relented. The preacher left for California, declaring he would serve the Lord by bringing souls of the heathen to Christ.

Six months later he was beheaded by a warparty of Modocs.

The day after the trial ended Cutter and the boy were loaded into a prison ambulance for the six-day journey to Springfield. The old springless wagon groaned as it swayed through the hilly Missouri countryside, following winding, rutted roads laid down over limestone shelves and cut through dust-covered, well-shaded thickets, serenaded by the thrum of cicadas in the stifling summer heat.
In addition to the driver two guards were sent along; a pair of pimply local boys, whose lack of education perfected their ability to endure the mindless ennui of slow travel. They simply made faces at one another as they rode.

The first three days inside the wagon passed in silence. Hot, dusty hours of travel were interrupted only by brief periods of rest for the team; the leg chains and manacles on the condemned were never removed. At night the two slept chained together inside the wagon, the floor of which was barely long enough to tolerate the full length of the prisoners.

On the morning of the fourth day they forded Horse Creek and as water seeped in through the floorboards the boy raised himself to peer out the barred window high on the box wall. The rattle of his chains woke Cutter from a nap.
Havin’ a last look are ye?
The boy made no reply, but watched the slow movement of the brownish-green water as it slid past the wagon, which cast small eddies downstream as it cut the current.
Never seen a trial as quick as your’n. Hell, they even took a week with me. These shitepokes is in a big hurry to be shed of ye.
The boy settled back down on the wet wagon floor. Cutter smiled. His teeth were uncommonly large, even, and white. The boy’s eyes narrowed as he spoke.
Ain’t the only one, am I?
Cutter laughed.
Shit boy. They been tryin’ to hang me fer ten year.

At noon the party halted near a willow-lined spring. The team was watered and turned out to graze. The driver, a fat, perspiring windbag by the name of Scoggins, ordered the two young guards around like valets.
Stake them mules out good now. They’ll wander ‘n you two’ll have to hike back to Westport.
Boy, fetch me some cool water. Make sure it’s from upstream of them mules. I cain’t have any of that warm canteen. Tastes like piss.

He reclined in the shade, lunching on hard bread and jerky as his boys moved slowly about the wagon. Cutter and the boy were unloaded to the rear of the wagon and set down in full sun, their leg chains run through the spokes of a rear wheel.
If it gets too warm on y’all just let me know.
Scoggins laughed, wiping sweat from his face with an oily rag. The guards joined him, squatting in the heavy blue shade to eat. They chewed with their mouths open, squinting at the prisoners, wiping their lips on their sleeves. The older boy’s name was Maxwell. His .58 Springfield rifled musket lay in the wet grass beside him. He wore a loose belt with a faulty cartridge pouch that twice opened and spilled lead balls. The younger guard was a slender 17-year-old named Little. He carried a Whitney colt stuck in his waistband, aimed at his testicles.
Flies buzzed around the prisoners. Cutter shook his head.
Say, when do you aim to give us some of that tug?
Scoggins lay back in the grass, tipped his hat over his face.
What’s the trouble dead man? Afraid ye goin’ starve to death?
Cutter looked at the boy. He smiled and sat back against the wheel. Fifteen minutes passed before he spoke again.

Hey boss? I got to answer the call.
What?
I got to use the convenience.
Scoggins lifted his head.
Go ahead. Fire away. I ain’t stoppin’ ye.
Well then, I suppose I’ll wait ‘til I’m back in the wagon. You and yer cousins there can clean up after me.
Scoggins lifted his hat from his face, let out a long sigh, looked at the guards.
You all take the prisoners down’t the spring. Watch ‘em close. If they look to go rabbit on ye, shoot.
He tossed the keys to Little, pulled his hat back over his face. The young guards looked at him for a long moment, as if they didn’t quite understand his words. Cutter interrupted.
Say there, uh, what’s yer name, son? Can we get started here?
Maxwell walked slowly toward the prisoners.
Well now, dead man, don’t be thinkin’ no fancy moves. I’ll prefer nothin’ more than to put a ball right ‘tween yer eyeballs.
And I’m sure ye would, son. Still and all, nature’s demands will force an unpleasant moment if we don’t hurry. Would you mind?
He held up his manacles, smiling.
---
The prisoners swatted at mosquitoes as they squatted in the thick willows at the edge of the spring. Maxwell and Little stood back on a small bank of sand-covered driftwood that marked the stream’s April snowmelt surge. Maxwell leaned against the Springfield as he worked a long stem of grama grass side-to-side between his thin lips; Little stared vacantly at the pale, cloudless sky. Cutter whispered to the boy.
What’d ye say your name was, boy?
Never did.
Well, I’ll just tell ye here and now that I ain’t ever kilt a man that didn’t deserve it. And there have been quite a few instances when I should have, but did not.
The boy said nothing.
So you just keep that in mind.
Cutter finished, hitched his trousers.
C’mon, Cutter said as he pulled the chain that connected their leg irons. Over’t the stream.

Both waded out of the willows to a sandy ford at the water’s edge. Maxwell brought his rifle to his shoulder; Little put his hand on his revolver.
Whoa now, said Maxwell, where in hell you all reckon you’re goin’?
Cutter turned, smiling. He held up his hands.
Need to warsh, yokel. You all know what that is, don’t ye?
Maxwell lowered the rifle. His eyes were slits.
I’m goin’ to enjoy seein’ you hang, bub. Ain’t enough water in the whole damn world to warsh the blood off’n them hands. But you all go ahead. I’m watchin’ ye.
Cutter snorted, turned back to the water and knelt down, the boy beside him. Cutter whispered.
How far behind us ye reckon them numbskulls stand?
What?
How far?
Twelve, fifteen foot, mebbe.
Yup.
Under the water Cutter’s hands found a smooth river stone the size of a Macintosh apple. He looked at the boy.
Well, boy, this here’s where it happens.
What happens?
My stay of execution. Now… when I move, ye best come with.
He began to rise. The boy saw the dripping stone in his right hand. His eyes moved up to Cutter’s face and the white, shining teeth. The outlaw winked.

Suddenly Cutter spun around, cocking his right arm as he pivoted toward the guards. The boy turned to see Maxwell’s eyes widen as he started to raise the heavy Springfield, but it was too late. The stone caught him at the base of the throat, making a hollow thunk as it struck; the rifle dropped at his feet. Maxwell sank to the ground, gurgling and writhing, hands at his throat. Cutter looked at the boy.
Move, damn ye. Move.

As the boy scrambled to his feet he saw Little fumbling with his pistol, shaking violently in his effort to free the weapon from his waistband. Cutter reached Maxwell’s rifle and grabbed the long barrel just as Little aimed and pulled the trigger. There was an empty click. Misfire.

Before Little could cock the weapon again Cutter swung the Springfield and knocked the pistol out of the guard’s hand. The guard stumbled backward. Cutter aimed the rifle at his chest.
Now, Cutter said, I’ll have those keys.

Little’s eyes rolled side to side between Cutter and the boy; he looked as if he would scream, but no sound came. Instead, he grabbed the key ring from his belt and threw it. The keys spun on the heavy ring as it sailed through the humid air, shining like gemstones in the sunlight until they splashed in the middle of the creek.
Shit, Cutter said. He lowered the rifle. He was about to speak again when Maxwell grabbed his leg. A huge, purplish welt bloomed on the boy’s throat where the stone struck him. He grunted in ragged, gasping breaths as he tried to claw his way up from the ground.

Goddammit, Cutter muttered. He looked at the boy.
The outlaw smashed the butt of the rifle down on Maxwell’s skull, sending a geyser of blood straight up in the air. Maxwell’s body collapsed, convulsed, and was still.
See how it is?
He kicked at the chain that connected their leg irons.
C’mon now, he said, and the two prisoners advanced upon Little, who stood, eyes wide, a single tear moving slowly down his cheek.
You’re the smart one, ain’t ye? said Cutter. Now, how will me and the boy be shed of these irons?
He leaned forward to bring his face close to Little’s.
Can ye tell me that?
Little sniffled, shook his head.
No?
Cutter straightened, turned to the boy, who suddenly wondered if the man intended to kill him too.
They will not help themselves, he said, which is why they end up fixed like this.

Little sank to his knees, head bowed, thin shoulders bunched in response to the sobs he could no longer suppress. Cutter knelt before him, speaking in low tones, addressing the young man as a father might console a favorite child.
If ye had tended that pistol better the day might’ve had a different outcome. Ye know that, don’t ye?
Little looked up, nodded.
Well then. It’s a lesson learned.

Little nodded again, his thin lips forming a faint, hopeful smile. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. Cutter rose, and turning to his fellow prisoner, smiled as if confirming the congeniality of the moment. His teeth flashed in the sun; he took in a deep breath and gripped the rifle firmly.
He swung the weapon waist high, striking Little in the temple with the heavy butt plate. The guard dropped like a steer in a slaughterhouse chute, blood streaming from his nose and ears. His eyes rolled, lids fluttered; his mouth opened twice, as if yawning. Cutter was not smiling when he turned suddenly back to the boy, who reflexively raised his hands to defend himself. The outlaw again kicked at the chain that connected them.
Pick up the pistol. There’s more work.

Scoggins was snoring loudly when Cutter gently pushed the hat from his face with the Springfield’s muzzle. The fat man snorted, rubbed his nose, and awakened to see Cutter and the boy standing over him, the rifle just inches from his nose. Scoggins moved his hands from his chest, slowly spread his arms.
Need another set of them keys, boss.
Ain’t any. The boy, he’s got the only set.
He ain’t got ‘em now.
I’m sorry, Cutter, I can’t help you.
Cutter’s smile faded. He cocked the Springfield.
Well then. Mebbe I should just… what was the words ye used? Fire away?
Scoggins’s forehead glistened with sweat. Tears filled his eyes.
Wait. Wait. No, please. For the love of God…
The heavy bullet exploded through the fat man’s sinuses; the ragged margins of flesh smoldered from powder burns, which in turn ignited threads on the edge of his muslin shirt collar.

When the body was found rumors of torture and man-burning fueled panic throughout the county.