Chapter 3: Hangman’s Knot

The small group stood around the collection of fresh graves. Heads bowed, they listened as the old Indian spoke to God. His prayer was almost conversational. The man responsible for the carnage sat with his back to the wagon wheel, hands tied behind him. His amusement at the superstitious ritual performed in front of him showed on his face and was punctuated by occasional laughter. His shoulder ached from the two bullets lodged deep in the joint between shoulder and arm. He hoped for a chance to get even with that bitch for shooting him.

“Lord,” the Indian said, closing his supplication to his Maker, “we ask your tender mercies on these people. I think you might have a rough time forgiving the one called Halfwit. I know I do. But he might not be fully responsible. You see, Lord, he was carrying around a bullet in his brain. That has to cause some changes. May you have mercy on the souls of these departed. Amen!”

Saying words over the graves of newly departed friends, family, and strangers was a constant in the old man’s life. A part of his life on the frontier was death. Harsh weather, accidents, and of course murder were just daily occurrences. The old man had never once killed anyone. Though he was sorely tempted to kill once or twice, he had always resisted the urge.

Returning his derby to his head, he turned back to the wagon. The darkness was already upon them. A couple of lanterns lit the area while a big campfire provided its own glow to the proceedings. He stopped just long enough to speak to Powers. “God, doesn’t it like it when you mock him. Considering your situation, you might consider a little respect.”

“I ain’t got anything to do with your God, and he has nothing to do with me. When I get my necktie at Fort Larned, I won’t meet my maker because I have no maker. You Bible thumpers are the worst sort of persons; you go through life depriving yourself of pleasure to please a God that isn’t there. An Indian Christian? I never knew there was such a thing. We got ourselves plenty of nigger Christians where I come from, but nary one Indian Christian to be found.”

Dishing up the food; they all began eating in somber silence. Keeping Powers’ good hand tied behind him forced him to struggle with feeding himself with his wounded arm. After a short time, he gave up, tossing the food down, proclaiming it slop. Buffalo head untied Power’s right hand so he could finish his ... slop.

Slowly the mood lightened as they ate their dinner. Once finished, they again tied Powers’ hands behind his back. Buffalo Head again tried to convince Powers to let him remove the bullets and sterilize the wounds on his shoulder. Powers swore, “Damn it to hell, I’ll never let no Injun or Darkie touch me.”

Drinking coffee, the group talked of life. Suddenly Meeker, listening to the coyotes howling, began to laugh. “I saw a little mountain cottontail rabbit kill a big ole mean wolf one time. He was what you would call an assassin rabbit. Oh, nobody wants to hear that story, I guess.” Michelle looked over at Meeker and smiled.

“I think I would like to hear me that story,” Shell said, settling her back comfortably against her saddle.

“Me too,” Sarah Culbertson chimed in. Sitting cross-legged, she put her elbows on her knees and leaned her face on her hands. The young girl was hoping for something to lighten her mood. The horror of her parents’ deaths blazed in her mind. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him ... sitting there against the wagon wheel ... Sarah hoped he was hurting bad.

“Oh, go ahead,” the old Indian said. The prisoner shook his head no. Powers realized his vote was not going to count. Lying back, he just hoped it was a short story. God, his shoulder burned; the throbbing pain moved down his left arm, burning with a blistering pain. He felt his blood gushing through the arm, searing the veins and arteries as it worked a poisonous infection through his arm.

“Well, ya see, there was this cute little rabbit eating some grass in the meadow. He was a right cute little critter, gray with some brown and a white cotton ball tail. His little nose would twitch, a’ sniffing this sprig of grass or that leaf of a dandelion. Pulling sprig or leaf, he would carefully chew it; I got the impression he was counting how many chews he took. That would be allowing for a mom that taught him right. It was high up near the timberline.

“I saw this vicious-looking wolf just a’ watching that poor little rabbit. The wolf was dark gray bordering on black, with white on his chest and paws. His blue eyes were somewhat spooky in appearance, sort of evil. His long tongue darted out and licked along his lips. Just a bit of anticipatory drool dripped from his mouth. I could tell he was looking at his next meal.

“To my surprise, the wolf just sat there, eyeballing the little rabbit. He seemed amused by the feller and his scampering about. I know I had been. I thought, maybe that little rabbit was safe, as the wolf didn’t appear to be as hungry now. He wasn’t pawing the ground or looking anxious no more; he was just watching. Suddenly he made his move—it was lightning fast. One moment he was casually watching. The next he was right on top of the rabbit. I thought, ‘Well, there goes my dinner.’

“The wolf must have been in a playful mood. You see, he took to tormenting the little rabbit. Chasing him around, grabbing a leg of the little critter, he would throw him a distance. Tumbling around a mite, then coming to a stop, the little feller would get up and shake it off, and then he’d take off again. Ole, mean mister wolf chased him down ... again. Tossing him around and repeating the whole danged processes.” Meeker meandered on with his story for some time, then said, “The wolf at last let the hunger get the better of him. In retrospect, this was a mistake because he wolfed down his meal whole, so to speak. He didn’t even take time to chew. No sir, he just swallowed him down ears to hind paws. Being that he was a right smart little rabbit, he took up a defensive stance.

“Pushing out with his little hind legs and grabbing a hold with his front paws, he prevented the beast from gulping him down.” Meeker laughed for a moment, then continued.

“That wolf had the strangest look on his face. He took to gagging, coughing, and spitting something fierce. He pawed at the ground and even tried to howl. Holding his head up, he tried to swallow, but the critter wouldn’t budge, not for hell nor high water.” Leaning toward the young girl, his eyes grew wide as he spoke, “You could say mister rabbit stuck to his position. Soon you could almost see the blue in the wolf’s face. Now, what I mean to say is, the wolf was in a bad way. It was over in a flash; that ole wolf lay down, his eyes bulging out, and sir, I tell you true ... he just gave it right up there and died.” Pausing, he looked at his listeners, moving his gaze from one to another till he looked each of them in the eye.

“Then the throat of the wolf began to move, and soon his mouth opened up. The little critter scampered out.” Pushing upright, Meeker went on with the story. “The tiny hero shook his self, and thick spittle flew from his fur. Then he licked himself off. Being sure to get all that nasty wolf stuff off, just a spitting it out in disgust. Turning his back to the dead beast, the little critter left a few little pills marking his kill. I lifted my rifle up, thinking I would get my dinner. Still I could see that dead wolf out of the corner of my eye and set my rifle down. Thinking better of eating the critter, I pondered it a mite too long and the little feller scampered off to destinations unknown. Damnedest thing I ever did see. Now, that is how I remember it; accuracy is not ensured.”

“Fine story,” Michelle said, and Sarah chimed her approval as Michelle stood to take first watch.

Sarah had a rough night filled with nightmares of the torture and murders of her parents. The awful screeching sound the man called Halfwit made as he raped her mother tormented her in her dreams. Sarah still managed to sleep. A fitful sleep that gave her little rest; her world was shattered, and the girl had no idea what would become of her. Waking sometime after midnight, in tears, she moved over and laid next to the old, sleeping Indian. Pressing against the old man, she snuggled up to him. Instinctively the old man put his arm around the girl, not even knowing she was there. Feeling safe and secure in the old man’s arms, she felt comforted by his tender touch and she slept soundly for the rest of the night.

The kindness he had shown her caused the girl to bond with him. As if he were her grandfather, she had an instant trust in him. Powers looked at the girl, sleeping against the Indian, and felt disgust that a white girl could shame herself in such a manner. The girl reminded him of someone, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Then pleasant memories flooded his mind of raping and murdering a girl south of Dallas a few months before. Oh yes, she had light brown hair as well; that was why this girl was familiar.

His arm ached all the way from the wound down to his fingertips. The arm was warming even as the throbbing grew in intensity. The pain was a constant reminder of the redheaded bitch shooting him. She was watching him cautiously. Looking at her, he ground his teeth, his eyes growing hard. The mean stare was intended to frighten her.

Pulling her hat off and laying it to the side, she ran her fingers though her hair. Turning to her saddlebag, she removed a brush. Brushing her hair, she continued to stare at him, returning a hardened look of her own.

“You want to keep count for me?”

“Do what?” he said quizzically.

“My mum told me I should brush my hair one hundred strokes every day. Do you want to keep count for me?”

“Why the hell would I want to keep count for you?”

“The way you are staring at me, I just got the impression you wanted to keep track so I didn’t have to,” she said, letting him know his look did not frighten her. Soon the bad man slept restlessly as the pain tortured him. Michelle watched him until after three a.m. and then woke Meeker and went to sleep. She rested well and woke before sunrise.

Early that morning the group set out for Fort Larned, nestled on the banks of the great bend of the Arkansas River.

“I know right now you hate Captain Powers back there. I did as well, but I forgave him. You need to forgive him as well.” The Indian talked to Sarah in a calm voice and pleaded his case to her, invoking Jesus and God in his guidance. The girl listened considerately, if not enthusiastically. After several hours of the wagon bouncing along the trail and listening to the old Indian, she made peace. She decided to share her decision with Powers. Turning her head and looking back at the man lying in agony on the floor, she spoke to him.

“I’m not happy about what you did. I don’t think it is all right that you did it. But I forgive and don’t hold it against you. I don’t even hate you no more.”

“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness. Nor the Lord God Almighty’s nor his humble servant Buffalo Head’s. I don’t need forgiveness,” he said, spitting out the words with venomous resolve. Perplexed by their forgiveness, he curled up on the floor of the wagon, wondering what was wrong with these people, clearly, they were not normal. He remembered a Sunday go-to Meeting from his youth, held down at the river. The preacher standing down in the water, just dunking people as the group praised the Lord. What a strange lot these Christians were.

“Your sins are washed away ... Are you bathed in the blood of the lamb?” Powers cried out several hours later, beginning to fall into delirium from the fever. Buffalo Head began to worry Powers might not make it long enough to see Fort Larned, let alone stand trial.

Powers’ arm continued to grow more painful; the flesh discolored and muscles swelled. He continued to cry out things he remembered from his youth. His mind overflowing with strange feelings of guilt, for the first time in years; emotional conflicts plagued him about guilt and pleasure. He was unable to understand this “forgiveness” granted to him by those he had wronged.

“My daddy done told me, Niggers and Injuns ain’t people, they’s animals,” he cried out, as a long diatribe began of statements drilled into him by two opposing forces from his youth. Recalling the conflicted statements from his childhood, he said, “The preacher told me we are all God’s children...” The words came to him in odd clarity from deep within his addled brain. “When a man does you wrong, you make him pay for it, boy. Kill him if need be ... Don’t judge others; forgive them and turn the other cheek ... Women are here for a man’s pleasure ... A good woman is worth more than silver or gold; treat them well. What’s the truth of it all? By God, you can’t all be right ... Why did they hurt that poor Nigger woman, daddy, she didn’t do nothing to them ... I told you they’s animals boy ... We’re all God’s children ... There ain’t no God ... Is there a God?”

By nightfall, he was in agony, with danger of the infection spreading through his body. Again, the old Indian asked permission to work on him. Reluctantly Powers finally nodded agreement. “Yeah ... hell yeah ... I can’t stand no more,” he hissed the words out in labored breaths.

Opening Powers’ shirt, the Indian could see that the arm had to come off. After three bottles of whiskey, all they had, Powers passed out. Buffalo Head began to clean his instruments and heat the long rod. After half an hour, he dug a shallow grave and buried the arm.

Awaking with the fever broken, Powers found that he was minus an arm. He was furious, exploding at the Indian. He lay in the back of the wagon, swearing at the whole party. Telling them of the awful revenge he would reap on them. Buffalo Head continued talking gently to Powers about God and his soul. Something he had begun doing from their first meeting.

Somewhere between denial and acceptance, there is anger. Powers was not yet ready for the cold hard truth that he was going to die. He had always known from when he and his mates took the shine out from the army that he would wind up on the wrong end of the rope. Accepting that was not easy though. All through the day his mood was foul, fueled by anger and pain. A day later, at about midday, the group arrived at Fort Larned.

Mud walls were under construction around the actual fort. The small town outside the walls was a collection of large buildings that were nothing more than tents with a few wooden structures mixed in. Riding in, the group was surprised to find the town seemingly deserted. The doors on the saloon were shut tight behind the swinging doors. Large signs read, “Gone to hanging, be back soon.” Coming to the town marshal’s office, they found a similar sign on the door.

At the far west end of town, a large crowd stood gathered around the big gallows. A man’s voice could be heard speaking, but the words were not clear. The crowd looked like a town picnic was in progress or perhaps a revival meeting. From inside the wagon, Powers lay in great pain, asking what was going on. They told him there seemed to be a hanging in progress.

“I wanna see that,” Powers said, poking his head out from behind the wagon seat. “Take me down there, Injun; get a move on. Let’s go see the sights.” Buffalo Head looked at Sarah sitting on the other side of the wagon seat from him. Powers was between the couple, with an eager look on his face.

“No!” the old man told him, turning his attention to the riders. “Shell, you and Meeker ride down and watch if you want. The three of us will stay here. Sarah doesn’t need to see no hanging.”

“I don’t want to see any hanging, not even his.” She looked at Powers. He thought, There it is again, forgiveness!

“Oh, come on, I want to see the hanging. I ain’t seen a good hanging in a long time.” Pleading his case, Powers was like a child asking for candy.

“Don’t have a conniption fit. Climb on down, you braggart, and we will let you walk down to the proceedings,” Meeker told him somewhat in amusement. “I guess it won’t hurt any if you see a hanging from this side of the rope afore you see from the t’uther.”

Powers quickly descended from the wagon. It was a somewhat difficult situation for the one-armed man to descend the wheel to the ground. Gingerly touching his missing arm’s socket, he complained loudly, “Damn you, Injun; you cut my arm off.”

“You wouldn’t be alive to acknowledge the corn if I hadn’t! You’d be talking to Jesus right now trying to make him understand you’re not really a bad sort.”

“The truth shall set me free; will it, brother Buffalo Head? I’ll tell you what old man; I’ll make you a deal. The day I meet Jesus, I’ll convert,” he said, mocking the man’s faith. Powers walked briskly away toward the large crowd. His empty left sleeve flapped around in the breeze. His blood-soaked shirt had been replaced with one belonging to Culbertson. For a man with a newly missing arm, he moved at a surprisingly brisk pace as Meeker and Michelle followed on horseback. The two horses plodded along, wanting nothing more than some blade of grass or bag of grain to eat. Soon they were listening as the preacher finished his statement. Concluding, he led the crowd in the Lord’s Prayer.

“Do you have any last words, young man?” the hangman asked the prisoner. “Young man” was a stretch; he was a boy of no more than sixteen years old. His worn and threadbare clothing showed his poverty.

“By God, he’s between hay and grass,” Meeker exclaimed.

“Just a boy,” Shell echoed the sentiment. Michelle Tanner had never seen a hanging before; Meeker had seen far too many. Reaching in his vest side pocket, he ran his thumb over his tin. He had worn the Crescent Star of a deputy US marshal with pride. He remembered the men he had captured and then watched hang.

“I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident! Y’all shouldn’t be hanging me on account of an accident. I meant to kill you, Judge; I should have killed you. If’n I had killed you, then I’d be glad to hang for it.” The hangman started to put the bag over the boy’s head.

“No, I don’t want that damn thing. They can watch my face. They can all see my face as I die. They will know they kill’t an innocent man. I have the right of vengeance on that man!” he cried, meaning the judge, “I shot the wrong man by accident.”

“Sorry, son, it’s the law.” The hangman unceremoniously shoved the white flour sack over the man’s head, then put two belts around his legs: a belt high up around the thighs and another one around the lower legs, belted around the calves. He buckled them tightly, holding the legs together. He placed the loop over the young man’s head. Pulling it snug to his neck, he sat the knot on the man’s shoulder. Walking to the lever, the hangman nodded to the judge.

“George Packer, you have been sentenced by a jury of your peers to hang by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul!” As soon as the judge stopped speaking, the hangman yanked the lever. The trap door plopped open with a loud clang. Packer’s body dropped down the opening as the crowd let out a collective gasp. The rope stretched taut, then snapped; his body went crashing to the ground underneath. Packer screamed out in agony. His body bucked and twitched, a small red smear appeared on the white flour sack. It began to spread.

The crowd recoiled at the sight, horror-struck. Moans, groans, and hushed murmurings filled the air about the fouled-up job. The comments spread quickly through the crowd. Women appeared flushed with horror, excitement, or a combination of the two. Some talked in breathless, incomplete sentences of how terrible it was. A few left sickened by what they saw. Most stayed, secretly wanting to see more.

This was something that Meeker had never seen. That was saying a lot, for he thought he had seen it all. His heart went out to the boy; this was a disgrace, for no one deserved to die this way.

Hurriedly the town doctor, accompanied by several men, rushed to the fallen man. The murmur from the crowd grew to a mild roar as each person struggled to make themselves heard above the other talkers. Michelle felt the crowd believed this was some grand entertainment. Checking Packer, the doctor verified his neck was not broken and the boy was not dead, though all knew that he was alive from his pained screams, his body lurching and bucking on the ground. He cursed all around, calling them murderers and more.

This wasn’t right. Meeker knew this wasn’t right; if a person survived a hanging, he should have his sentence commuted. Any decent judge would at least rule it changed to life in prison. He began to believe the stories he’d heard about this judge. He knew one issue firsthand.

The men closed the trap door. Packer’s body continued to buck wildly as the men carried him back up the stairs. The white bag covering his face began to turn crimson as some cut under the bag bled profusely. Dropping him twice, twice they picked him up and continued. They placed him again in the center of the trap door, where he knelt, unable to stand with one leg now broken. Whether broken in the botched attempt at hanging or from the men dropping him was open to debate. Producing a new rope to repeat the process, one of the men handed it to the executioner. Blood flowed down, darkening his clothing; the bright red blood even fell in splotches on the rough wooden platform. While the hangman quickly tied a new hangman’s knot on the new rope, the men cut the old one from Packer’s neck. The blood-soaked flour sack stuck to his face. When he exhaled, the material flared out at his nostrils and then fell back. Soon the new rope adorned the man’s neck, positioned just as before.

The judge dipped his head, and the hangman pulled the lever again. There was a loud grating sound but nothing more. The trap door failed to open. Again, the judge indicated for the hangman to pull the lever. Again, the hangman yanked the lever. The loud sound filled the air and again nothing happened.

The judge walked to the hangman, and they discussed what to do as the man bucked and lurched at the center of the platform. Packer tried hard to get loose, to no avail. Rumblings from the crowd grew louder; some nervous laughter filtered through the air. Turning to the crowd, the judge yelled at them.

“Stop that damn laughter; this isn’t a laughing matter.” When the judge speaks, people listen. The crowd grew silent. Meeker, Michelle, and Powers couldn’t believe how quickly the crowd quieted down.

“They must respect the judge,” Michelle noted.

“No, it’s more likely they fear him,” Meeker said in a hushed voice.

It is unimaginable what must have gone through Packer’s mind each time he heard the yanked lever’s grating sound. The distinctive sound telling him now you die. Only nothing happened. Fear building in a torturous manner and then a sudden release, as nothing happened. Then it all started again—would you consider that cruel and unusual punishment?

The judge grabbed the lever and yanked it himself, hard. This time the grating sound preceded a loud clang as the door fell open. Packer dropped. The rope stretched tight, and his body bounced when it hit bottom. Some would remark it sounded as if a twig broke when his neck snapped. George Packer, at last, hung dead at the end of the rope. One of his boots fell from a foot. His boots being a few sizes too large, he had never quite grown into his father’s hand-me-downs .0

Two girls, eleven or twelve years old, cried hard when his neck snapped. One fell to the ground sobbing. The other patted her on the shoulder, then leaned down and hugged her. The little girls were dressed in boys’ clothing. They looked to be twins. When one gazed at the other, it was like looking in a mirror. They walked away quickly, disappearing as the crowd broke up. Ducking in an alleyway, one leaned her back to the wall, covering her eyes with her hands. The other again dropped to her knees, crying uncontrollably.

“Well, that didn’t go according to Hoyle!” Michelle’s stomach wanted to make trouble for her. She fought the urge and acted as if it was nothing. Placing her hands on her guns, she shoved down hard; the feeling of the crisscrossed belts tight on her body helped her control her stomach.

Women around watching the sight swooned; the men talked with nervous excitement about what had happened. The crowd was slowly disbanding and moving back to their more mundane day. An odd and unpleasant fact exists that other folk’s misfortune can bring entertainment and some amount of satisfaction to a person about his or her own life.

“I don’t think I want that feller hanging me.” Powers spoke with concern in his voice. “I never seen nothing like that.” His right hand played with his empty left sleeve in nervous manner.

“Damnedest thing I ever did see,” Meeker allowed, then continued, “Oh, nothing to worry about, old salt.” Lightly thumping him on his back, he continued, “He couldn’t botch two hangings in a row, could he?” The question hung in Powers’ mind. Could he botch two hangings in a row? Could he? His missing arm hurt, and he wondered how something no longer there could hurt. He wished the Indian hadn’t buried it on the prairie; he wished it would be buried with him. “Besides all that, you’re a hardened criminal, and you knew it would come to this. Sooner or later.”

“There was a time I would have enjoyed that a goodly amount. Now knowing it could be me on the end of a botched job, I’m having trouble having any pleasure from it a’tall.” The city marshal spotted them and walked up to them.

“I don’t believe I know you. I’m Marshal Tucker. Macy Tucker.” The man was a big man, really big. Meeker noted in his mind that he probably tipped the scales at well over four hundred pounds.

“I’m Joseph Nathan Meeker.” Extending his hand, the marshal took Meeker’s hand into his own big bear paw. The two men shook, and Meeker quickly explained to the marshal the situation. Tucker called over the judge, a man named David Jackson, and in short order the trial was set for the next day. Meeker couldn’t help noticing how slick the judge spoke. He recognized the ballyhoo of a bunko roper.

“Oh, Mr. Meeker, I have heard of you. You’re famous; we don’t have celebrities this way often. Would you honor me with having dinner with me this evening?”

“No offense, Judge, but I will just be eating with Buffalo Head and Shell here tonight. I’m feeling a mite peeked right now.” He held off from showing the disdain he felt.

“Hope it is nothing serious. Surely the procedure today didn’t upset a man such as you?”

“Naw—Judge, it is more than likely the spices from our meal last night. Buffalo Head is a fine cook, but he does tend to put a might too much peppers and such in his food. I will see you at the trial tomorrow.” Turning his back to the judge, the four of them—Michelle, the marshal, Meeker, and the prisoner—walked away toward the jail.

“So, you have heard about our judge and you don’t care for him.” Tucker spoke in a flat tone; Meeker let the comment pass without an answer. “I don’t much care for him either. But letting him know it could be hazardous to your health,” the marshal cautioned. The sidewalks dipped down when the marshal, walking in front of the group, walked on them. Meeker made an excuse and broke away from the group, and after about twenty minutes returned to the marshal’s office, having made a stop at the blacksmith’s, who was a friend of his.

The marshal’s office was the only brick building in the town. Even the fort had no brick structures. It was a small building with four cells and an office; there was a cot in the office. A yellow cat roamed freely around Powers’ feet. Looking down at the animal, he wondered what crime this little feller had committed.

Tapping his lap, the cat jumped up on him. He rubbed his head between the ears. The cat lay down and purred in contentment. It pleased him that the cat took pleasure from this simple act. Thinking back, he could remember no other act of kindness to anyone else in his adult life.

“Where did it all go wrong, old son?” Powers asked the cat. Powers remembered his last act of compassion when he was a youth, good Lord, how terribly wrong that went.

“Here it is, Captain Edward Powers—Wanted Dead or Alive; First Sergeant James Thomason—Wanted Dead or Alive; Private Simpson, first name unknown, goes by Halfwit. Simpson $250, Thomason $250, and Powers $500 reward.” Marshal Tucker looked at three flyers, one on each man. “Wanted for desertion by the Confederate Army, rape and murder in Texas, the same here in Kansas; they are desperate men. Well, they were desperate men. Texas is offering one hundred dollars on each man, Dead or Alive. Confederate Army has no price on them.” He tossed the fliers on the desk and then sat down. His leather, padded chair creaked loudly as he sank into place. Meeker wondered how it didn’t break.

“Texas forwarded these up to us even with the war going strong. The enclosed a letter said they were all hard cases, regular ‘curly wolves’ was the exact phrase the writer used. I can give you the money from Kansas but not that from Texas. I’ll send them a telegraph. They will probably send Confederate script by mail.”