Massacre at Powder River

There was laughter and applause from the gallery.

“Marshal Drew, bring the defendant before me again, please.”

Again, Marshal Drew prodded Clem up to stand before Frewen.

In keeping with his English heritage, Moreton Frewen put a black cloth called a “sentence cap” over his head. This was the custom in the English courts and worn only when a death sentence is about to be passed.

“Clem, No Last Name, this court sentences you to hang tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

“Your Honor, we can’t build a proper gallows that fast,” Marshal Drew said.

“How proper does it have to be?” Frewen said. “All we need is something that will elevate him from the ground far enough to get the job done. I’m sure there are tree limbs, beams, pylons, appendages, bracings, or stanchions extant in this town that could serve the purpose. Find one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This court is adjourned.”

“Come along, Clem,” Marshal Drew said, reaching down to take Clem by the arm.

“Wait a minute! What about all them protests and things? Ain’t we goin’ to wait to see what happens with them?”

“The judge has sentenced you to hang tomorrow, and that is exactly what you are going to do,” Marshal Drew said.

“It ain’t right,” Clem said. Then, as he was led out of the saloon, he shouted back over his shoulder. “It ain’t right, damn you all to hell!”

Chapter Seventeen

In jail that night, Clem’s sleep, what little there was, was filled with dreams.

His feet were dangling over the back of the wagon as his ma and pa drove down to the Current River for the all day preaching. All of the neighbors were gathered there, sitting on blankets listening to a traveling preacher as he walked back and forth in front of them, preaching about the fires of hell and stabbing his finger into the air to emphasize his points. Then it came time for the baptism and dozens lined up to go down to the water.

“No, I ain’t goin’ to go down to the crick and let you dunk me in the water.”

“You have to be baptized if you want to be saved,” the preacher said.

“I don’t want to be saved.”

“But you must. You must give your soul to the Lord.”

“I ain’t a-goin’ to do it.”

“Then you will burn in hell!” the good reverend said, pointing a long, thin, bony finger at Clem.

Clem shouted out loud, and waking with a start, sat straight up on the cot.

“Are you all right in there?” the deputy called back.

“What time is it?”

“It’s one-thirty.”

“I’ve got nine and a half hours left,” Clem said.

The deputy came to the jail cell and looked in. There had been two other prisoners in jail when they brought Clem in, but both were in for being drunk and disturbing the peace only, so Marshal Drew let them go. He didn’t want any other prisoners around while he was holding Clem.

“You want something? A cup of coffee, maybe?” the deputy asked.

“Coffee? What about whiskey? You got ’ny whiskey?”

“Sorry. I can’t give you any whiskey. Coffee will have to do.”

“All right, give me a cup of coffee then.”

The deputy walked back to the front of the jail, poured a cup of coffee from the blue metal pot that set on top of the pot-bellied stove, then brought it back to Clem.

“Thanks,” Clem said.

“Do you want something to read? I’ve got a couple of books here.”

“I ain’t never learnt how to read,” Clem said.

“All right,” the deputy said. “If you want any more coffee, just let me know.”

“Hey, Deputy,” Clem called.

The deputy turned.

“Can you read?”

“Yes.”