The Juzgado

They let him put on his shirt before they locked him in the jail’s single cell, which measured 9 by 12 feet, at the rear of a box-shaped fieldstone building with a small ventilation gap high in the back wall.

It was a dark, reeking space, and the boy kept his back to the flat iron bars as he slid down to the cold, straw-covered stone floor. For a short while his eyes darted about, searching in vain for shapes in the inky blackness.

From across the room came the sound of slow rhythmic breathing, and the boy knew that a man he could not see, a sleeping man, already occupied the cell. The boy stared into the darkness, trying to collect himself, but in the still, foul air an aching exhaustion overcame him and slowly he sank to his side. Within a minute he was asleep.

He awakened to the sound of urination. Through the gap at the top of the back wall the first dim rays of daylight outlined a figure pissing in a bucket in the corner. As the boy rubbed sleep from his eyes the figure looked over his shoulder and shuffled back to the other side of the cell, yawning. He wore leg irons, which jingled and squeaked as he moved to the wall, stopped, stretched his arms, and loosed a loud, quaking fart before settling down upon a small blanket spread upon the floor.

His name was Henry Cutter. He was thirty years old, although in his dirty, loose-fitting workingman’s clothes he looked much older. He had a slender build, with long, thin arms and legs that culminated in large hands and feet. He sported a fashionably long mustache and goatee. At first acquaintance most who met him would describe Henry as an affable, intelligent man. He was that and more: At twelve years of age he killed a man for throwing a rock at his dog. By the time he turned twenty he had murdered twice again, a free black man and a Cherokee Indian. Since then his life catalogued violence and crime on a grander scale: war and gunfights, stabbings, assaults and robberies.
He had large gray eyes that focused on the boy, who began scratching his waist and neck where bedbugs had pitched into him as he slept.

Ticky in here, ain’t it?

The boy didn’t respond. His attention was drawn to the building’s front door, where a key rattled in the lock. The door swung open and Marshal Albert Toomes entered the room. A big man, well over two hundred pounds, he stepped to the front of the cell, folding his meaty fists around the bars.

Mornin’ Henry.
Hullo, Albert.
Son.
The boy remained silent.
Albert, said Cutter, I see yer boardin’ schoolboys these days. What’d he do? Turpentine your dog?
Same as you, Henry. Murder, robbery. Bashed the skull of a teamster, then run smack into one a’ my deputies. Had the man’s purse.
Well. What do you aim to do with him?
Hold him for trial.
Missouri hangs children?
Missouri hangs murderers, Henry, as you’ll soon find out. Hell, the two of you, mebbe you’ll get stretched together.
I ain’t hung yet, Albert.
As good as. Boy’ll go to trial, and soon as that’s over, his honor’ll write out your order of execution. Then it’s off to Springfield, mebbe both of you. Good riddance, too.
You got a mean streak, Albert. You know that?

The marshal looked at the boy.
Care to tell me yer name this mornin’ boy?
No response.
Ain’t gonna help you any, keepin’ quiet. If you’ve kin, they should know. You’re in deep, son.
He paused a moment, turned to leave, looked back at Cutter.
Breakfast’ll be up shortly. Then you two can swamp out the cell.

Toomes slammed the door behind him. Cutter stared at the boy, who sat slumped against the bars.

Ain’t got a pistol on you?
The boy turned to face the bars.
A knife then?
Cutter held up his chains.
Well, how’s about a key?