Incident In Muttontown

Incident In Muttontown

By Harry Buschman

Two stone tablets of native granite hung above the entrance to the court house in Muttontown, Idaho. Below them, just inside the doorway stood, like an irate shortweighted housewife, the familiar blindfolded figure of lady justice, holding her empty scales aloft. On one of the tablets, the following inscription was clearly visible.

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's.”

Cliff Porter, the defendant, leaned forward and put his chin in his hands––he had a life and death interest in the inscription over the doorway, and in the blindfolded figure holding the empty scales. They were the very charges read aloud to him in a sing-song voice by the court clerk on a warm Friday afternoon in Muttontown, Idaho.

He was accused of coveting. The fact that there was no evidence to prove him guilty made no difference to the court, for he was not an equal in the eyes of the law in Muttontown. Cliff was a vagrant and a drifter. He owned no property, held no office and owed nobody anything. Therefore, it being Friday afternoon, and bearing in mind all hangings are performed on Saturday afternoons in Muttontown so all citizens could attend, it was important to get a decision from the jury immediately.

Judge Monday hemmed and hawed the court to silence and peered over his spectacles at the jury. “Now I know all you good people,” he began, “... want to reach a verdict as quickly as possible ... ” He looked at the large clock on the wall. “... rather than waste the court’s time while you’re sittin’ out there in the the jury room, let’s reach a verdict in court right here and now.”

Cliff stood up and said that was illegal––that the jury must deliberate in private––they should not be influenced by anyone in the courtroom.

“Sit down young man,” the judge said. “God tells us what to do here, not you. I say you’re guilty and I know every man in the jury box thinks you’re guilty too.”

“That’s another thing,” Cliff shouted. “Why are there no women on the jury?”

“Bailiff!” the judge banged his gavel. “Sit this man down and make him be quiet ... you’re an out of towner sir, and you may not understand the law in Muttontown, but ignorance of our law is no excuse. You’re a coveter Mr. Porter. We live by the Good Book here and coveting is a serious crime in Muttontown. To answer your question––we don’t allow women to make decisions of such magnitude.” He stared at Cliff belligerently and added, “Thou shalt not do anything we say thou shalt not do. We here in Muttontown know exactly what God had in mind when he forbade coveting.”

The men of Muttontown knew just about everything there was to know. They knew exactly when time began, for instance. It was in the last week of November, on a Friday afternoon at 4 p.m., three thousand and forty nine years ago. They also knew from long experience that when a man was brought in for trial he was guilty––even if some out-of-town huckster lawyer proved him innocent, and when Friday rolled around things were tied up neatly, the prisoner would get a last supper, a good night’s sleep and the sentence would be carried out the next day.

For Cliff, the sentence was hanging.

Was he guilty? Cliff was sure his intentions were as honest, upright and innocent as a man’s can be. He did not covet Marianne.

... “Marianne.” Such a lovely name to be linked with Brady Wicker. Not to mention their young son, Ben ... in danger of becoming a vacant headed farm boy because his father spent every night in the Nugget saloon with the boys at the bar ... he needed a father’s guidance. But did all that constitute covetousness?

Cliff didn’t think so, helping Ben with his school work, singing songs and telling stories was the only contact he had with Marianne and her son. Cliff was a vagabond, yes––and mistrusted for that. His guitar and a few books were all he owned. He’d pick up a job if he had to, but only long enough to make some traveling money.

It had been sheep shearing time at the Wicker place when he arrived in town and they were hiring anybody. Cliff hung on a little while after. Mrs. Wicker said Ben was having trouble in school and maybe he could use a little extra learning at home.

So Cliff unraveled the mystery of numbers to little Ben, he made numbers stand for something––not 2, but two eggs. Not 17, but the seventeenth of August. Day by day Ben’s eyes lit up with understanding and the riddle of arithmetic was finally resolved. To celebrate, Cliff read stories to him, and watched his bright, mischievous puppy dog’s eyes. He told Ben tales of wonder, of dwarves and giants. Of princesses and dragons. He sang him songs ...

“The king of France with 40,000 men.

Marched up the hill, and then marched back again.”

“Oh, do you know the muffin man ...

Who lives in Drury Lane?”

And to the lady––the lone and lovely lady, he sang songs of sadness and love ...

“I’m bound, I’m bound away ...”

“But I being young and foolish ...”

Her brown, unblinking eyes ... yes, he watched them too. They stared beyond him to a place neither of them dared go.

“But did I covet?” he asked himself. “I did not dare to covet. I grieved––I grieved for them and their lack of a husband and a father.”

Judge Monday, a personal friend of Brady Wicker, did not agree, and the jury, (looking at the big clock on the wall) was of a mind to heed God’s will. “Yes,” they agreed––no man in such a situation could avoid the sin of covetness. “You’re right, Judge, we agree. Every man Jack of us.”

“Then it is my duty to pronounce sentence upon you, Cliff Porter. You shall be hanged tomorrow afternoon at three p.m. from the hanging tree in the village square.” He banged his gavel smartly and the bailiff took Cliff away.

As night fell in Muttontown, Cliff stood by the window of his cell and watched the sky darken and turn cerulean blue at the horizon and a darker blue above. The first stars of the evening began to appear and he tried to remember their names. Polaris? Orion? But he was in a strange town and the stars were in different places. His cell window faced the village square and he could see the tree from which he would hang tomorrow. It was an old tree, bare of leaves on its north side––he thought he could see the gallows branch.

How many men had died there? However many there were, there would be one more tomorrow ... unless. Something was bound to happen. Something or someone would step in tomorrow to save him. It had to be.

It was a lovely late summer Saturday afternoon, and except for the drunks who couldn’t tear themselves away from the Nugget Saloon, the whole town was gathered on the village square. The hangman’s stand was already in place by the hanging tree. Its red, white and blue bunting, now slightly faded from a summer in the sun, decorated the rail at the front and hung down low enough to conceal the body of a kicking, and finally dangling, man. Mrs. Eunice Monday, the Judge’s wife. sat up front on a folding chair, somewhat overflowing it, periodically glanced at the large watch pinned to the bodice of her black lace blouse. She always dressed in somber black for hangings, although black did not become her, she considered it necessary attire for the wife of the only criminal courts judge in Muttontown. She was an impatient woman with a roast in the oven and if the hanging didn’t get under way soon, she knew it would be overdone.

The appearance of the bailiff, the warden, the minister of the Church of Latter Day Saints and Judge Monday himself with Cliff Porter between them was the signal for everyone to stop talking and face the hanging tree. The youngsters playing baseball on the grassy field called a postponement and slowly fell in line behind the adults gathered at the gallows stand. Cliff was shackled and appeared composed as he awkwardly made his way up the stairs to the gallows. Some people mistakenly thought his composure was an outward sign of contrition––actually he was waiting for the miracle that would prove his innocence.

Gossip and small talk was suspended and dry throats were cleared. The only voice to be heard was that of the preacher who murmured words of prayer and consolation. Cliff was heard to remark that he had not, in any way, coveted anything not belonging to him–– “in fact,” he mentioned in passing, “I didn’t even covet the things I owned.”

The hangman adjusted the noose so its knot was situated snug against the occipital bone behind Cliff's left ear, then fitted the black hood over his head. The officials on the stand then looked at each other and shrugged––signifying there was nothing more to do. The lever was pulled and Cliff dropped out of sight.

There was a sharp crack!

It was loud enough to startle everyone. It was far too loud a crack to come from Cliff Porter. Everyone, hanging party and onlookers alike, gasped when the limb from the hanging tree fell with a crash to the gallows floor, pinning the occupants beneath it. The judge, preacher, hangman and warden disappeared in a welter of arms and legs and broken branches just as Cliff, himself disappeared into the red, white and blue bunting below which concealed his dangling body. The astonished onlookers gasped, the women covered their mouths with their hands. The men removed their cigars and the children cheered.

Mrs. Eunice Monday went over backwards in her chair. Her black straw hat fell off and had to be retrieved by a bartender in red sleeve garters. “Well, I never!” she exclaimed as he helped her to her feet.

When the trapdoor opened, Cliff blacked out for a second or two, and now, having regained his senses, he assayed his condition. With his condemned man’s hood tied securely under his chin, he could see nothing. He could feel nothing. But he could hear frantic voices and a crash somewhere above him. If he had passed into another dimension shouldn’t things be a little better organized? Was it possible that life in the hereafter was just as disorderly as life on earth?

He had no way of knowing that the hanging branch of the hanging tree had broken and fallen directly on the platform where the warden, the minister of The Church of Latter Day Saints, Judge Monday and the hangman stood watching him disappear through the open trapdoor––presumably on his way to eternity. Actually, due to the slack in the rope, he landed on his feet below the platform wondering what on earth happened and why he was still alive.

Only one of the party on the platform was conscious. The hangman, standing a little to the left and somewhat to the rear of the others, was relatively untouched, the others lay flattened under the tree. He glanced at the judge, the preacher and the warden and crossed himself hastily. He had seen many men die in his day and he was quite sure they were done for.

He looked out at the crowd gathered on the village square, in particular he noticed the black stockinged legs and multi petticoated skirts of the judge’s wife who had just fallen out of her chair in the excitement. Such foresight, and so womanly of her to dress for the dead, he thought ... but did she know it would be her husband and not ... Cliff Porter!

He suddenly remembered the executed man was down under the platform! Had he escaped his own execution?

The hangman found his way down the platform steps and pulled aside the red, white and blue bunting that had been hung to hide the dangling body of the condemned man. He was alive and standing with the slack noose dangling from his neck. “There’s been an accident,” the hangman said. “You’re a free man.”

“What happened?” Cliff asked.

The hangman untied Cliff’s hands and removed the hood and noose from his neck. “Come,” he said. “See for yourself.”

It was a sight to behold. Cliff stared out upon a sea of faces, all turned to the gruesome panorama on the platform above him. The sentence of death for the crime of coveting had been irrevocably revoked ... by whom? Was it fate who intervened? Was it the hand of God, or was it planned––perhaps by the hand of a sympathetic Muttontowner? Was the branch sawed half-way through? Cliff turned to the hangman and said, “What do we do now?”

“We only have one go at a hanging,” the hangman said. “If it doesn’t go off as it should, the prisoner goes free.”

Cliff was in no mood to disagree. He thought perhaps it might be nice to say goodbye to Marianne and her son––but decided to let sleeping dogs lie. He thought perhaps he should stop off at the Muttontown jail and pick up his guitar and his books of stories and songs––but he decided to let those dogs lie also.

As he walked westward into the setting sun he looked behind him at the milling crowd around the gallows tree. He reminded himself that the ten commandments carved above the entrance to the Muttontown courthouse were a good rule to follow, but a lame excuse for a legal document and an unreliable verdict for an execution.

© Harry Buschman