than not.”
“Why did you shoot him?”
“Because he ran when I ordered him to stop,” Sheriff Wallace said.
“He isn’t armed.”
“He ran,” Wallace repeated, as if that was all the explanation he needed.
“What difference does it make if he ran? It’s not like he was going to get away from you, is it? You know his name, you know where he works.”
“Mister, you are that close to interfering with the law,” Wallace said, obviously irritated by Smoke’s comments.
By now, a crowd began to gather around Emerson’s body, as many of the people who had been at the depot were drawn to the scene by the excitement. Smoke, not wanting to be a part of the circus, drifted away.
As Smoke walked back to the depot, he saw a paper boy standing at the edge of the platform, selling newspapers.
“Get your
“Yes.”
“I’d better get back to the newspaper office and tell Mr. Cutler. He’ll be a’ wantin’ to write a story about it, I reckon.” Then, reverting to his entrepreneurial spirit, he turned his attention to Smoke, a potential customer. “You just get into town?”
“Yes.”
“Then I expect you’ll be wantin’ a copy of the
“The hanging?”
“Yes, sir, come Friday, there’s goin’ to be a hangin’ right here in town. Why, if you was to walk down the street a bit, you’ll see the gallows. It’s goin’ to be some thin’ to see, I’ll bet.”
“Are you going to watch it?” Smoke asked.
The smile left the boy’s face. “No, sir,” he said. “I reckon Mr. Cabot done what they said he done. I mean, he was caught red-handed by them folks that was on the train and all. But he was always just real nice to me. Bought a paper from me ever’ week. And once he give me a quarter tip for no reason at all. I think watchin’ a hangin’ might be excitin’ and all that, but I ain’t in no particular mind to see Mr. Cabot hang.”
“I’ll take a paper,” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir. That’ll be five cents.”
“Five cents? Most papers cost only two cents.”
“Yes, sir, folks keep tellin’ Mr. Cutler that, but he says that as long as he’s the only newspaper in town, he figures he can charge whatever folks will pay for it.”
Smoke chuckled as he handed the boy a nickel. “I guess he has a point,” he said.
The boy handed him the paper, which consisted of a single sheet that was printed on both sides. As promised, the lead story concerned Bobby Lee Cabot.
At ten o’clock of the morning on Friday the 31st instant, Sheriff Herman Wallace, duly armed with a death warrant signed by His Honor Judge Jeremiah Briggs, will escort Bobby Lee Cabot to the gallows, there to affix a rope around his neck for the purpose of dispatching his soul to eternity.
Cabot is paying the ultimate penalty of death by hanging for his part in the robbery of the Nevada Central Train on the night of 21st ultimate. The robbers, believed to be the Frank Dodd gang, relieved the Nevada Central Messenger of $5,120.00, said money being transferred from the Bank of Reno to the Bank of Cloverdale. Although the messenger, August Fletcher, cooperated in every way, he was shot down in cold blood by the robbers. Mr. Fletcher was married and the father of four. He was a deacon in his church, and it is said of him that no finer man ever walked the streets of Cloverdale. A trial, fairly conducted, and with the verdict delivered by the unanimous vote of twelve men, good and true, has determined that the life of this wonderful man was cut short by the evil doings of Cabot.
The execution of Bobby Lee Cabot is to be publicly conducted with no restrictions applied as to who may attend. All who love justice are invited to be present at the hour appointed. A great crowd present to witness Cabot being delivered into the hands of Satan will send a signal to all who would contemplate duplicating Cabot’s foul deed.
After reading the story Smoke perused the advertisements finding one for a hotel.
DEPOT HOTEL
Fremont Street, Cloverdale, Nevada
WILLIAM R. CHAMBERLAIN
