hat afternoon, as Oscar Polford and Whip Langford rode into Hilltop, Oscar ran his gaze to the spot next to the Hilltop Hardware Store where Jason Archer's paid liars were supposed to be gathered, waiting for him to return. He smiled to himself when he saw that all five were there.
As he and Langford slowly rode past them, the group gave them a casual glance, but Oscar knew the look was anything but casual. They knew that the man who was being lured to Hilltop under false pretenses had fallen for the lies Oscar had told him.
The paid liars dashed to the office of the town marshal, knowing that Polford was supposedly leading Langford to visit his “dying” friend at the hospital. When all five of them burst into the marshal's office, Wiley Chance was standing beside the desk of the deputy marshal on duty at the moment. Eyes wide, he said, “Something wrong, fellas?”
“I guess you'd call it something right, Marshal!” said one of the men, who introduced himself as Zack Peterson. “We were standing over by the hardware store just now, and we saw the dirty killer who gunned down Byron Whitmore on October 8 casually ride into town!”
The marshal's eyes bulged. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Positively!” Peterson replied. “As we've already told you, all five of us saw him ride away that day after killing Byron. Right, guys?”
“Right!” the other four chorused.
“He came in from the north, Marshal. Probably from Denver.”
Marshal Chance looked at Peterson. “You said he was riding casually. Like he might not be in a hurry.”
“Right.” Peterson nodded.
The marshal whipped out his gun. “Maybe he's stopped somewhere along Main Street. I want you to go with me and point him out.”
“Let's go!” said Zack Peterson.
All five hurried outside with the marshal and headed south down Main Street. As planned, Oscar Polford led Whip up to the front of the Hilltop Hospital on Main Street. Swinging from the saddle, Polford said, “You wait here, Whip, while I go in and see if Albert is still alive. He was when I looked in on him this morning, but if he's dead now, I want to save you from the awful jolt of looking at your old friend's lifeless body.”
Whip nodded solemnly. “I appreciate that, Oscar. I'll wait right here.”
Whip stayed on his rented horse and watched Oscar enter the hospital. What he didn't know was that Oscar stood at the edge of a window just inside the hospital and watched for the paid liars to show up.
A few minutes later, unknown to Whip, the five men and the town marshal were drawing near the hospital. Zack Peterson, who was walking beside the marshal, stopped and pointed to the man sitting on his horse out front. “There he is, Marshal, sitting right there on that horse! That's him.”
The five men followed Marshal Chance as he crossed the street and made his way southward until they were behind the man in front of the hospital.
Gun in hand, the marshal moved quietly across the street with the five men on his heels. The men watched with interest as Chance slipped up behind Whip, then jumped in front of him, aimed his gun at his heart, and snapped, “Get your hands in the air, mister! You're under arrest!”
A shocked Whip Langford jerked in the saddle and looked down at the man with the badge on his chest and a gun aimed at him. “What?” he choked. “Why am I under arrest?”
“Because you murdered Byron Whitmore, a shopkeeper here in town, on Saturday morning, October 8!”
Whip saw five men draw up beside the marshal, and one of them said, “This is him, all right, Marshal! Without a doubt, he's the guy who came out of Byron's shop with a smoking gun in his hand the day Byron was murdered!”
“This is him!” said another of the five men. “He jumped on a horse with the smoking gun in his hand and galloped out of town!”
The others emphatically spoke their agreement.
The marshal raised his gun and pointed the muzzle at Whip's face. “Get down off that horse right now! One false move, and I'll put a bullet in your head!”
His eyes clouded with fear, Whip dismounted. He started to speak, but Marshal Chance cut him off. “Indeed you do look like the killer who was described to me by other people of this town who saw him come out of the shop, mount his horse, and gallop away.”
“Yeah! We saw you real clearly!” The others nodded and spoke their agreement.
His face pale, Whip said, “Marshal, it isn't so! It wasn't me! These men are wrong! So were the other people who described the killer!”
“Ha!” Chance gusted, still holding his gun on him. “This many witnesses can't be wrong.”
“You said it was October 8, right?”
“Sure was.”
“Well, Marshal, I haven't been in Hilltop for at least six months! I came here today because I was told by a man named Oscar Polford that a friend of mine, Albert Smith, was sick and dying at the hospital and wanted to see me before he died.”
“Don't lie to me!” snapped the marshal. “I happen to know that Albert Smith is out of town today. I talked to him this morning as he was about to ride out. I'm taking you to jail.”
The five paid liars exchanged glances. They had seen Langford ride into town beside Oscar Polford, but they would never tell the marshal this.
Whip took a deep breath. “I'll go with you peacefully, Marshal, but I'm telling you that I was not here on October 8, and furthermore I have never killed anyone! I did not kill this Byron Whitmore.”
The marshal set his jaw. “Every man ever arrested for murder says he isn't guilty. Nobody is ever guilty. C'mon. I'm taking you to the town jail. It just so happens that the circuit-riding judge for this area happens to be in town. You'll be on trial real quick.”
Palsied with fear, Whip said, “Marshal, did anyone who saw the killer ride away that day describe his horse?”
Chance nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, is this the horse they described?” He pointed to the horse beside him.
“No, but so what? It isn't hard to change horses, is it?”
Whip sighed. “No, but I'm telling you, I—”
“Shut up! Let's go!”
The marshal made Whip turn around and quickly put handcuffs on him. As they walked up the street with the five paid liars gathered around them, Whip walked beside the marshal, his hands shackled behind him and his head hung low.
People on the street gawked as the group moved by.
Now outside the hospital and watching the scene, Oscar mounted his horse and rode away the other direction.
The marshal locked Whip in a cell, telling his deputies the story and that he was taking the witnesses to see Judge Harold Wagley. He and the five “witnesses” left the jail and headed toward the judge's office.
When they arrived, the judge wasn't busy at the time and listened intently as Marshal Chance explained the situation of Langford's arrest and incarceration.
The marshal looked on as the five witnesses told the judge the story of seeing Whipley Langford come out of Byron Whitmore's shop on the morning of October 8 carrying a smoking gun, the same story they had been directed by Archer and Lynch to tell. Judge Wagley clearly remembered the shopkeeper being murdered that day.
The marshal informed the judge that he could produce a few more witnesses who had told him that they had seen the killer come out of Whitmore's shop, smoking gun in hand, at 8:45 on Saturday morning October 8 and ride away.
“I have to leave Hilltop this afternoon,” the judge said, “and go to the next town on my circuit for a trial tomorrow. Marshal, you and I both know of law-abiding men here in Hilltop who are always willing to serve on a jury. I'll send two men who are employed by the county to round up twelve of them. I'm sure they can do it in half an hour. You round up your other witnesses and have your prisoner here in half an hour, and we'll put him on trial.”
Just over half an hour later, Whip sat in the small courtroom in front of the judge's bench with Marshal Chance beside him. The five witnesses and four others gave their testimonies to the judge and jury.
The jury then met in private for a few minutes. When they returned to the courtroom and sat down, Judge Wagley asked if they had arrived at a verdict. The man chosen by the other jurors to be their spokesman stood and told the judge that the jury was one hundred percent in agreement that the defendant was guilty of the murder of Byron Whitmore.
The judge set his stern eyes on the defendant and said, “Mr. Lang-ford, will you please stand?”
Whip rose to his feet, his heart pounding in his rib cage. “Your honor, this is a case of mistaken identity. I am innocent. It was not me who shot and killed Mr. Whitmore. I wasn't in Hilltop at that time.”
Paying no mind to Whip's declaration, Judge Wagley said in a deep tone, “Whipley Langford, you have been found guilty in this court of law of the cold-blooded murder of Byron Whitmore, an outstanding citizen of Hilltop, Colorado, on the morning of October 8, 1887, at approximately 8:45. I hereby sentence you to be hanged on the large cottonwood tree in the center of Hilltop, which is the official gallows for execution in this town. You will be hanged at high noon tomorrow, Tuesday, October 18, 1887.”
Having said thus, the judge banged his gavel on the desk. “Court dismissed!”
Moments later, a devastated Whip Langford, his hands cuffed behind him, was escorted back to the town jail by Marshal Chance.
In sheer despair, Whip said with a tremor in his voice, “Marshal Chance, a big mistake is being made here. I am innocent! I did not kill that shopkeeper! I told you…I haven't been in Hilltop for at least six months!”
But the marshal ignored him. Soon they entered the jail, and the marshal took him to the cell he had been in before and locked him behind the bars.
Whip walked up to the barred door and looked at the marshal between the bars. “Will you do something for me?”
Chance frowned. “What?”
“Will you go to the Hilltop Hospital and see if my friend Albert Smith is still alive?”
The marshal's face went dark with irritation. “I told you, Langford, Albert Smith left town this morning! He is not at the hospital! Besides, this Albert Smith thing you're making up couldn't make any difference now. You'll be dead at noon tomorrow anyway.”
Whip's mouth went dry. His body went rigid, and his eyes widened as he gasped and cried, “Marshal! I'm innocent! I didn't kill that man! I didn't, I tell you!”
“The jury said different, Langford. See you in the morning.” With that he walked away and was soon out of sight.
Whip noticed men in some of the other cells looking at him. He gave them a disgusted glance, then wheeled and plopped himself down on one of the cots in the cell.
That night, when all the lanterns in the cells were out, Whip was unable to sleep. His body was damp with perspiration as he lay on the cot, facing the fact that he was going to die at noon the next day. He thought of what John Brockman had shown him from the Bible many times about dying without Jesus Christ as his Saviour and going to hell.
Clutching the blankets with both trembling hands, Whip moved his lips, saying in a whisper, “If God loves me like Brockman says, why is all of this happening to me? I'm innocent! How could those people say they actually saw me come out of that shop with a smoking gun in my hand? It's not true! If God loves me like Brockman says, how can He allow such an atrocity to happen to me? I guess Chief Brockman is wrong. Look at what I'm facing! God doesn't care anything about me or I wouldn't be scheduled to hang tomorrow. Sure, I've done a lot of bad things in my life, but I'm no murderer. I never took another person's life. Never!”
The sleepless Whip Langford lay on the cot through the long, dark night, trying to remember all of John Brockman's admonitions to him. However, his mind was so befuddled by the horrifying turn of events that he couldn't even think straight.
As the night went on, Whip imagined that he could feel the flames of hell about to swallow him up. By the time dawn shone its early light through the window of the cell, Whip was trembling from the terror gripping his entire being.
In Denver the next morning, John Brockman was at his desk doing paperwork when he heard a tap on his office door. Looking up, he called, “Yes, Mike?”
Deputy Allen opened the door a crack and stuck his head in. “Chief, a delivery driver named Claude Darden is here and wants to see you. Isn't he a member of your church?”
“Yes, he is. I know him and his family quite well. Send him in.”
Allen turned and motioned to Claude, who was a few steps behind him. “Chief Brockman will see you now, Mr. Darden.”
As the grocery delivery driver entered the office and the deputy closed the door behind him, John rose to his feet and circled the desk. “Howdy, Claude.” As they shook hands, John asked, “What do you need to talk to me about?”
Darden's brow creased. “Chief, all of us in the church know about your friendship with Whip Langford and, of course, have been praying for his salvation.”
John nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, Chief, I was in Hilltop late yesterday afternoon delivering groceries to the Hilltop General Store. While I was there, the owner of the general store told me that earlier in the day Langford was arrested by Marshal Wiley Chance for murdering a shopkeeper in Hilltop on Saturday morning, October 8. Yesterday afternoon five townsmen told Marshal Chance that they had just seen Byron Whitmore's killer ride into town.”
John was stunned. “Do you know more?”
“Yes sir. Whip was put on trial immediately. At the trial, several citizens, including the five men who saw him ride into town yesterday afternoon, identified him as the killer, saying they saw him come out of Byron Whitmore's shop the day he was murdered with a smoking gun in his hand. He supposedly mounted his horse and rode away at a gallop. Whip was arrested right away, and from what I was told, he denied killing the shopkeeper or even being in Hilltop at the time the killing took place. But because so many people testified that he was the man they saw, his denial did not help him. The jury found him guilty, and circuit judge Harold Wagley sentenced him to be hanged in Hilltop today at high noon.”
John's face went pale. He shook his head. “This is impossible, Claude. Whip is innocent. He did not commit the murder! He was with me at that exact time on October 8, right here in Denver. Whip and I were in Bradley Higgins's office. Higgins hired Whip at that time and put him to work immediately.”
“Well, it's a case of mistaken identity then,” said Darden.
“Yes sir! Because October 8 is my oldest son's birthday! That's why I remembered the date so clearly.” He paused. “Chief, yesterday I delivered to two more stores in different towns. I stayed all night in the last town, so I just got back to Denver. I wish now I had disobeyed my boss and driven through the night to get here.”
John shook his head. “It's all right, Claude. But since Hilltop doesn't have a telegraph office, there's no way I can wire Marshal Chance and tell him to stop the hanging.”
He looked up at the clock on the wall. “It's seven minutes to eleven. I've barely got an hour to get there and stop the hanging. As fast as my horse is, I can make it in time if I leave right now. I've got to get there and save Whip's life!”
“I'll be praying, Chief.”
Stepping to the nearby coatrack and lifting his hat off a peg, John said, “Thanks for letting me know about the trial and the time set for execution.”
John put on his hat and ran out the door of his office with Claude on his heels. He stopped at the desk in the front office. “Mike, I've got to get on Blackie and ride like the wind. Mr. Darden will fill you in on what's going on.” With that he dashed out the door.
Deputy Allen nodded. “All right, Chief.”
John swung into the saddle astride his big black gelding and put him to a gallop, heading south out of Denver. He had to make it to Hilltop before noon—or Whip Langford would die for a murder he did not commit.
As John galloped Blackie out of town, he soon came upon the road that angled southeast toward Hilltop, which was only four miles out of Denver. He had been on the road only a few minutes when he looked ahead and saw a man standing beside a wagon with a team of horses hitched to it and a woman on the driver's seat, bending over as if she was in pain.
John drew rein, hauled up, and saw that the left rear wheel of the wagon, where the man was standing, was about to come off the axle. The man had a wrench in his right hand.
The man, who was quite muscular and somewhat younger than John, looked at him and noticed the badge on his chest. “Marshal, could you help me? My wife there on the seat is in a great deal of pain. It's in her midsection.”
“I noticed that, sir. Of course I'll help you.” As he dismounted, he thought about his tight schedule, which was critical if he wanted to arrive in Hilltop in time to keep Whip from being hanged.
“We don't know what's causing her pain, Marshal, but I'm trying to get her to Mile High Hospital in a hurry! The lock nut on this wheel came off. I was able to get the wagon stopped before the wheel came all the way off the axle.”
The man lifted up the lock nut in his left hand so the lawman could see it. “I found it about twenty yards behind the wagon, but there's no way I can lift the wagon so I can get the wheel on the axle completely and put the lock nut back on.”
John's nerves were on edge at the delay, but the man's wife could be in danger of dying. Her husband needed to get her to the hospital. “I'll lift the wagon, sir, so you can get the wheel back on securely.”
“The wagon is pretty heavy, Marshal. If I lift it, will you put the wheel back on and tighten the lock nut?”
John moved toward the rear of the wagon. “Yo u put the wheel on and tighten the lock nut. I'll lift the wagon.”
The man was shocked when the lawman gripped the side of the wagon and lifted it. Through clenched teeth, John said, “Hurry! Get the wheel locked back on the axle!”
Three minutes later, when the task was done, John eased the wagon down onto the wheel and said, “There you go, sir. I must be riding on now.”
The man smiled. “Thanks for your help, Marshal. Is your name John Brockman?”
“Yes.” John nodded, looking somewhat harried. “I must ride, sir.”
“I've heard about you,” the man said as John quickly jumped on Blackie's back. “Now I know that all the good things people say about you are true.”
“They certainly are,” said the man's wife, who was sideways on the seat, still bent over in pain. “Thank you for your help, Marshal.”
“You're welcome, ma'am.” John grabbed the reins of his big black horse. “I hope you'll be all right.” He put Blackie to a gallop, heading southeast as fast as the gelding could go.