questions, and I never was ‘fraid that they’d been in Chicago, and I
didn’t really think they took any of the papers, for they didn’t know
how to read. Well, I just took one look at Thompson and then went as far
from the hotels as I could, and kep’ away from the stores, for I was
sure the place was full of people from Chicago, and that all the
newspapers would be there, too. I didn’t stop a minute over where all
the nice houses was. I seen lots of people out on the porches and
settin’ in hammocks and loafin’ ‘round, and I knew they was from
Chicago. Then I went along across a little stream and come to a lot of
poor tumbled-down houses and tents, and I knew they was the niggers’
quarters, so I went into a little store kep’ by an old fat nigger lady
and bought a bag of crackers and asked her about the roads.
“Before this I made up my mind to go to Cuba. I remembered readin’ all
about it at the time of the war, when a lot of them stock-yards boys
went to fight, and I thought that I’d be so far away that I might be
safe, so I knew that I had to go to the Gulf of Mexico, and I kep’ on
that way. I didn’t dare to take the railroads any more, but just thought
I’d walk, so I kep’ straight on down the road all day until I got a long
ways from Thompson. I didn’t dare to stop for work, for I’d got it into
my head that everyone was after me, and if I waited any more I’d get
caught. My shoes was gettin’ pretty near wore out and I knew they
wouldn’t last much longer, and I hadn’t got more’n four dollars left,
and I knew if I didn’t come to the Gulf pretty soon I’d just have to go
to work.
“That night I stopped at another old shack, and had about the same kind
of dream I did the night before, only I was runnin’, and every time I
pretty near got away a cramp would come in my leg and pull me back and
give ‘em a chance to ketch me, and they seemed to come just the same
without runnin’ or flyin’, or anything, and always she’d come just where
I was. Still I got through the night and a nigger lady gave me somethin’
to eat, and I went on.
“I began to look awful ragged and shabby. My coat was torn and awful old
and black where I’d been workin’ in the charcoal pit. I’d changed my
shirt, and washed the one I had on in a little stream, but the buttons
was gettin’ off and I was tyin’ em up with strings. My pants was all
wore out ‘long the bottom, and my shoes pretty near all knocked to
pieces. As for my stockin’s—you couldn’t call ‘em stockin’s at all, and
I’d made up my mind to get a new pair the next store I come to, but I
didn’t like to stop in town.
“Along about noon I got to a little place and, of course, I was lookin’
pretty bad. Some o’ the dogs commenced barkin’ at me as soon as ever I
got into town. I stopped at a house to get somethin’ to eat, and a white
lady come to the door and told me to go ‘way, that I was a tramp, and
that she’d set the dog on me, and I ran as fast as I could. I went down
the street and a good many boys follered me, and I began to get scart;
so I went through the town as fast as I could, but I see some people was
follerin’ after me, and one that rode on a horse. So I took to the
fields and made for a clump of trees that I saw off to the right. I run
just as fast as ever I could and when I looked back I saw some people
was follerin’ me through the field. I went straight to the woods and ran
through ‘em, and got pretty badly scratched up, and my clothes tore
worse’n they was before. Then I run into a swamp just beyond and two or
three men ran ‘round on the other side of the swamp and I knew it was
all up, and I might just as well surrender and go back.
“I was so scart I didn’t care much what they done, so when the one in
front asked me to surrender or he’d shoot, I come out to where he was,
and he put his hand on me kind of rough and said I was under arrest for
bein’ a tramp, and to come with him.
“Then he took me back to town with all the men follerin’ and when we got
up into the edge of the place ‘most all the boys, black and white,
turned in and follered too. They took me to a little buildin’ over on
the side of the town, and went down stairs into the cellar and opened an
iron door and put me in. There wa’n’t no light except one window which
was covered with iron bars, and they locked the door and went away and
left me there alone.”
VIII
“I was locked up in the cellar for a long time before anyone came to
talk with me. I looked ‘round to see if there was any chance to get out,
but I seen it couldn’t be done. I thought it wa’n’t hardly worth while
to try. Honestly it seemed a kind of relief to be ketched and know I
didn’t have to run any more. I didn’t know why they arrested me, but I
s’posed they just thought I’d done something and they’d try to find out
what it was, so I thought about what I’d do, and made up my mind I
hadn’t better say much.
“After a while some fellers come down to see me and took me up in the
office. One of ‘em was the marshal and another was a lawyer or
police-judge or somethin’ of that kind. They said they wanted to fill
out some sort of a paper about who I was and where I come from and what
my business was and who my father and mother was, and what my religion
was, and whether I ever drank, or smoked cigarettes, and the color of my
hair and eyes, and how much I weighed, and a lot of things like that. So
I told ‘em I was from St. Louis, and guessed at the rest of the answers
the best I could. Only I told ‘em I never knew who my father and mother
was. They wa’n’t satisfied with my answers and fired a lot more
questions at me. And then they told me they thought I lied, and they’d
put me in the lock-up until mornin’, so they put me back there and give
me a plate o’ scraps for supper, and a straw bed to sleep on, and then
went away.
“Somehow I slept better that night than I had since I’d run away. I
rather thought it was all up and only a question of time when I’d get
back here, but I knew where I stood and wa’n’t so scart. I’ve slep’ fine
ever since I was here, only the time when the jury was out and when I
was waitin’ for the Supreme Court, and some special times like that. As
near as I can find out most of ‘em does when they know it’s all off,
just like people with a cancer or consumption, or when they’re awful
old. They get used to it and sleep just the same unless they have a
pain, or somethin’. They don’t lay awake thinkin’ they’re goin’ to die.
And after all, I guess if people done that there wouldn’t any of ‘em
sleep much. For ‘tain’t very long with anybody, and bein’ sentenced to
death ain’t much differ’nt from dyin’ without a sentence. Of course, I
s’pose it’s a little shorter and still that ain’t always the case.
There’s two fellers that I knew died since I come here; one of ‘em had
pneumonia, and the other was a switchman that thought the engine was on
the other side-track. John Murphy was his name. Still—I guess my time’s
pretty near come now.
“Well, in the mornin’ the marshal came in and brought me some breakfast.
Then he took me up to the office again. He waited a few minutes till the
judge come, and then they commenced firin’ questions at me. They asked
me how I got from St. Louis to where I was, That kind of puzzled me, for
I didn’t exactly know where I was. I answered it the best I could; but I
know I didn’t get it right. They told me I hadn’t got over lyin’ and I’d
have to be shut up some more. Then they asked me what public buildin’s
there was in St. Louis. I made a guess and told ‘em the court-house and
state-house. They laughed at this, and said St. Louis wa’n’t the capital
of Missouri. And of course I didn’t argue with ‘em about that. Then they
wanted to know how I come there and I said I walked. And they wanted to
know what places I come through and I couldn’t tell ‘em. Then they asked
me where I had walked, and I couldn’t tell ‘em that; and they asked me
how far I’d walked, and I told ‘em not very far, and they laughed at my
clothes and shoes and said they was ‘most wore out, and they didn’t
believe it, and told me again that they thought I was lyin’ and I’d have
to stay there till I learnt how to tell the truth. Then I got mad and
said I hadn’t done nothin’ and they hadn’t any right to keep me, and I
wouldn’t answer any more questions; that they didn’t believe anything I
said anyhow and it wa’n’t any use, and to go ahead and do what they
pleased with me.
“Then the marshal went to his desk and got a lot of photographs and
hand-bills tellin’ about murderers and robbers and burglars and
pickpockets and ever’thing else, that was sent to him from all over the
country, and he took ‘em and looked ‘em all over and then looked at me.
Then he sorted out a dozen or so and stared at me more particular than
before. I seen what he had in his hand; I seen one of ‘em was my
picture; only I was smooth-faced and now my whiskers had got long. He
made me take off my clothes and looked me over careful, and found where
I had broke my leg the time that I caught my foot between the rails when
I thought I was goin’ to be run over. You remember the time? I wish now
I had. Then he let me put on my clothes, and he went over all the
descriptions just as careful as he could, and he found that the
hand-bill told about a broken leg; then he looked at my face again, and
then he asked me when I’d shaved last, and I told him I never shaved.
Then he wanted to know how tall I was, and I told him I didn’t know, so
he measured me by standin’ me up ‘gainst the wall and markin’ the place.
I tried to scrooch down as much as I could without him noticin’ it; but
he said it was just ‘bout what the hand-bill had it. Then he asked me
how much I weighed, and I told him I hadn’t been weighed for years. So
he called someone to help him, and they put some han’cuffs on one arm
and fastened the other to the marshal and took me over to a store, and
made me stand on the scales till I got weighed. He said I weighed just a
little bit less than the hand-bill made it, and that if I’d walked from
Chicago that would account for the difference. Then he looked over my
clothes, but he couldn’t find any marks on ‘em.
“Then he sent down for the barber and told him to shave me. I objected
to that and told him he hadn’t any right to do it; that I wasn’t charged
with any crime, and he said it didn’t make no difference, he was goin’
to do it anyway. So I knew it wa’n’t no use, and I set down and let the
barber shave me. Of course I knew it would all be up as soon as I got
shaved. But I didn’t care so very much if it was; it wa’n’t any worse
than runnin’ all the time and bein’ ‘fraid of ever’-one you met and
knowin’ you’d be ketched at last.
“Well, after the barber got through shavin’ me, the marshal took the
picture and held it up ‘side of my face, and anyone could see ‘twas me.
He was so glad he almost shouted. And he told the police judge that he’d
got one of the most dangerous criminals in the whole United States, and
he was entitled to one thousand dollars reward. I never see a boy feel
so good over anythin’ as he did over ketchin’ me. He said that now he
could pay off the mortgage on his house and get his girl piano lessons,
and run for sheriff next fall. When he told me I was Jackson, I denied
it and said I never knew anything about Chicago, and was never there in
my life. He didn’t pay any attention to this, but wired to Chicago,
givin’ a full description of me. Of course, it wa’n’t long before he got
back word that I was Jackson, and to hold me till they sent someone
down.
“After the marshal found out who I was he treated me a good deal
better’n before. He got me nice fried chicken ‘most every meal, and
always coffee or tea and corn-cakes, and I couldn’t complain of the
board. Then he got my clothes washed and give me some new pants and
shoes and fixed me up quite nice. He come in and visited with me a good
deal and seemed real social and happy. He give me cigars to smoke and
sometimes a drink o’ whiskey, and treated me as if he really liked me. I
expect he couldn’t help feelin’ friendly to me, because he thought of
that one thousand dollars, and that he wouldn’t’ve got it if I hadn’t
killed her, and in one way a good deal as if I done it on his account.
Of course he wa’n’t really glad I done it, but so long as I done it, he
was glad I come his way. I s’pose he hadn’t anything against me any
more’n a cat has against a mouse that it ketches and plays with till it
gets ready to eat it up. His business was ketchin’ people just like the
cat’s is ketchin’ rats. Seems to me, though, I’d hate to be in his
business, even if it is a bad lot you’ve got to ketch. Still he watched
me closer’n ever, even if he was good to me. He didn’t mean to let that
thousand dollars get away. He kep’ someone ‘round the jail all the time,
and he got some extra bars on the windows, and when he come to see me or
talk with me he always brought someone with him so I couldn’t do
anything to him. He needn’t worried so much, for I was clean tired out
and discouraged, and I felt better in there than I had any time since I
killed her. Bein’ out of jail ain’t necessar’ly liberty. If you’re
‘fraid all the time and have got to dodge and keep hid and can’t go
where you want to and are runnin’ away all the time, you might just as
well be shut up, for you ain’t free.
“Soon as the marshal found out who I was, it didn’t take the news long
to travel ‘round the town, and it seemed as if ever’one there come to
the lock-up to see me. The boys used to come up ‘round the windows and
kind of stay back, as if they thought I might reach out and ketch ‘em,
but I always kep’ as far away as I could. Then the people would come
down with the marshal to the cell when he brought my supper and look at
me to see me eat, and try to get me to come up and talk to ‘em and watch
me same as you’ve seen ‘em look at bears when they was feedin’ up at
Lincoln Park, and they’d point to me and say, ‘That’s him; just see his
for’head. Wouldn’t I hate to get caught out alone with him? Anyone could
see what he is by lookin’ at him. I bet they make short work of him when
they get him to Chicago!’ I always kep’ back as far as I could for I
didn’t want to be seen. No one had ever looked at me or paid any
attention to me before, or said anything about me, and I hadn’t ever
expected to have my name or picture in the paper, or to have people come
and see me, and anyhow not this way.
“Of course, I knew well enough that it wouldn’t last long, and that
they’d be here for me in two or three days. I can’t tell you just how I
felt. I knew I was caught, and that there wa’n’t much chance for me. I
knew all the evidence would be circumstantial, still I knew I done it,
and luck never had come my way anyhow, so I didn’t have much hopes that
‘twould now. Then I began to feel as if it might as well be over. If I
was goin’ to be hung, I might just as well be hung and done with it.
There wa’n’t any kind of a show for me any more, and it wa’n’t any use
to fight. Then I began to figger on how long ‘twould take. I knew there
was cases where it took years, but I always thought them cases must have
been where they had lots of money and could hire high-priced lawyers.
And I hadn’t got any money, and the newspapers had said so much about my
case that I was sure that they wouldn’t give me much chance or any more
than the law allowed.
“Well, inside of two days some fellers come down from the sheriff’s
office in Chicago. I didn’t know either one of ‘em, but they had all
kinds of pictures and descriptions and said there wa’n’t any doubt about
who I was, and said I might as well own up and be done with it. But I
didn’t see any use of ownin’ up to anything, so I wouldn’t answer any
questions or say much one way or another. Then they explained to me that
they hadn’t any right to take me out of the state without a requisition
from the gov’nor, and it would take a week or so to get that, and I
might just as well go back with them without puttin’ ‘em to this bother;
that it always looked better when anyone went back themselves, and
anyhow I’d be kep’ here in jail till they got a requisition. So I told
‘em all right, I’d just as soon go back to Chicago as anywhere, and I
hadn’t done nothin’ that I had to be ‘fraid of, and was ready to go as
soon as they was. So they stayed till the next mornin’ and then
han’-cuffed me and put me between ‘em and led me down to the depot.
Before I left the lock-up the marshal give me a good breakfast and some
cigars and shook hands with me, and said he hoped I’d have a pleasant
journey.
“When I went down to the depot it seemed as if the whole town, black and
white, had turned out to see me, and ever’one was pointin’ to me and
sayin’, ‘That’s him; that’s him.’ ‘He looks it, don’t he?’ And pretty
soon the train come up and the officers and conductor kep’ the crowd
back while they took me into the smokin’-car. It seemed as if ever’one
in the car and on the whole train knew who I was and just what I’d done,
and they all come up to the smokin’-car to get a look at me, and pass
remarks about me, and ever’one seemed glad to think I was caught and was
goin’ to be hung.
“It ain’t no use to tell you all about the trip home. It didn’t take me
as long to come back as it did to go ‘way. At pretty near ever’ station
there was a crowd out to see the train, and all of ‘em tried to get a
look at me. The conductor and brakemen all pointed me out and the people
come to the doors and stood up before the window and did ever’thing they
could think of to see me. The detectives treated me all right. They gave
me all I could eat and talked with me a good deal. They didn’t ask many
questions, and told me I needn’t say any more’n I had a mind to, but
they told me a good deal about politics and how that the alderman was
runnin’ again, and all that was goin’ on in Chicago, and where all
they’d been huntin’ for me since I run away. I had to sit up at night.
One of ‘em kep’ han’-cuffed to me all night and another han’cuff was
fastened to the seat. I don’t s’pose they could’ve made it any more
comfortable and see that I didn’t run away. But still I don’t ever want
to take that kind of a ride again and I s’pose I never will.
“I felt queer when we began to get back into Chicago. In some ways I
always liked the city; I guess ever’one does, no matter how rough it is.
And I couldn’t help feelin’ kind of good to see the streets and
fac’tries and shops again; and still I felt bad, too. I knew that
ever’one in the town was turned against me, and I didn’t have a friend
anywhere. We’d got the Chicago papers as we’d come along and they was
full of all kinds of stories and pictures about me, and some things that
I’d said, ‘though I’d never talked a word to anyone.
“The papers said that they hoped there’d be none of the usual long
delays in tryin’ my case, that I was a brutal murderer, and there wa’n’t
no use of spendin’ much time over me. Of course, I ought to have a fair
and impartial trial, but I ought to be hung without delay, and no
sentimental notoriety-huntin’ people ought to be allowed to see me. They
wished that a judge could be found who had the courage to do his duty,
and do it right off quick. I had already been indicted, and there wa’n’t
nothin’ to do but place me on trial next day, and the verdict would be
reached in a few days more. It was unfortunate that the law allowed one
hundred days before a murderer could be hung after trial; that the next
legislature must change it to ten days; that would be plenty of time for
anyone to show that a mistake had been made in their trial, even if he
was locked up all the time. The papers said how that the Anti-Crimes
Committee was to be congratulated on havin’ found a good lawyer to
assist the state in the prosecution, and that the lawyer was a good
public spirited man and ought to be well paid for his disagreeable work.
“The papers told all about the arrest down in Georgia, and how the
marshal and a force of citizens followed me into the swamp and what a
desperate fight I made, and how many people I’d knocked down and ‘most
killed, until I was finally overpowered and taken in irons to the county
jail.
“I can’t make you understand how I felt when they was bringin’ me into
town. We come along down the old canal where we used to stone the frogs
and the geese and all along the places where us boys used to play. Then
we come down through the yards where I used to work, and right past the
house where I left that night with the kid sleepin’ in the bedroom. That
was the hardest part of all the trip, and I tried to turn away when we
come down along back of the barn by the alley; but it seemed as if
something kind of drew my eyes around that way, and I couldn’t keep ‘em
off’n the spot. And I thought about ever’thing I done there just in a
flash, and even wondered how long the old horse was tied in the barn
before they found him, and whether he got all the potatoes et up before
he was took away. But I looked away as quick as I could and watched all
the streets as we passed, to see if I could see anyone I knew. I felt
pretty sure that I wouldn’t leave Chicago again, and I guess I never
will.
“Pretty soon they pulled into the big depot, and the train stopped and
we got off. I wa’n’t expectin’ nothin’ in the station, but when we
landed the whole place was filled back of the gate, and I could see that
they was looking for me. The crowd was about like one that I was in down
there once when McKinley come to Chicago. A squad of policemen come down
to meet us, and they got us in the middle of the bunch and hurried us
into a patrol wagon. I could hear the crowd sayin’, ‘That’s him; that’s
the murderer; let’s lynch him!’—‘He don’t deserve a trial! Let’s hang
him first and then try him’—‘The miserable brute!’ ‘The contemptible
coward!’—I guess if it hadn’t been for all the policemen I’d have been
lynched, and mebbe ‘twould have been just as well. ‘Twouldn’t have taken
so long, nor cost so much money. Anyhow, I wish now they’d done it and
then it would be all over; and now—well, ‘twon’t be long.
“There was a lot of people in the street and every one of ‘em seemed to
know who was in the patrol-wagon, and they walked all the way over, and
lots of little boys follered the wagon clear to the jail; then the
newsboys on the street kep’ yellin’, ‘All ‘bout the capture of Jim
Jackson! Extra paper!’ and it seemed as if the whole town was tryin’ to
kill me. Somehow I hadn’t realized how ‘twas as I come ‘long, and, in
fact, ever since I went away. Of course, I knew how bad the killin’ was,
and how ever’one must feel, and how I wished I hadn’t done it, and how
I’d have done anything on earth to make it different, but all the time
I’d been away from the people that knew all about it, and I didn’t
somehow realize what they’d do. But when I come back and seen it all I
felt just as if there was a big storm out on the lake and I was standin’
on the shore and all the waves was comin’ right over me and carryin’ me
away.
“Well, they didn’t lose any time but drove as fast as they could down
Dearborn Street over the bridge to the county jail. Then they hustled me
right out and took me straight through the crowd up to the door; the
Dearborn Street door (that’s the one you came in, I s’pose), and they
didn’t wait hardly a minit to book me, but hurried me up stairs and
locked me in a cell, and I haven’t seen the outside of the jail since,
and I don’t s’pose I ever will.”
Jim stopped as if the remembrance of it all had overpowered him. Hank
didn’t know what to say, so he got up and walked a few turns back and
forth along the cell, trying to get it all through his clouded mind.
Such a night as this he had never dreamed of, and he could not yet
realize what it meant. The long story and the intense suffering seemed
to have taken all the strength that Jim had left.
Hank turned to him with an effort to give him some consolation. “Say,
Jim, don’t take it too hard. You know there ain’t much in it for any of
us, and most people has more trouble than anything else. Lay down a
little while; you can tell me the rest pretty soon.”
“No,” Jim answered, “I ain’t got through; I can’t waste any time. It
must be gettin’ along toward mornin’, and you see I don’t know just when
it’ll be. They seem to think it’s treatin’ us better if they don’t tell
us when, only just the day. Then you know, they can come in any time
after midnight. They could break in now if they wanted to, but I s’pose
they’ll give me my breakfast first, though they won’t wait long after
that. Well, I ain’t got any right to complain, and I don’t mean to, but
I s’pose I feel like anyone else would.”
Just then a strange dull sound echoed through the silent corridors. Hank
started with a nervous jerk. It sounded like a rope or strap suddenly
pulled up short and tight.
“What’s that?” Hank asked. Jim’s face was pale for a moment, and his
breath was short and heavy.
“Don’t you know? That’s the bag of sand.”
“What bag of sand?” Hank asked.
“Why, they always try the rope that way, to see if it’s all right. If
they don’t, it’s liable to break, and they’d have to hang ‘em over
again. They take a bag of sand that weighs just about the same as a man
and tie the rope to the sand, and then knock the door out and the sand
falls. I guess the rope’s all right; I hope so. I don’t want ‘em to make
any mistake. It’ll be bad enough to be hung once. I wonder how I’ll
stand it. I hope I don’t make a scene. But I don’t really think anyone
ought to be blamed no matter what they do when they’re gettin’ hung, do
you?