Black is the Night

It was nearing the noon hour when the sheriff rode up to my house in the hills of Twin Peaks.

With a surprise look, I asked him, “What can I do for you, sheriff? You are in time for a hot meal. I don’t have much but I think I can stretch it out for enough for the both of us.” I turned to go inside my cabin expecting to hear his footsteps on the porch behind me.

But there were no footsteps to be heard.

“I’ll stand out here, Blake. It won’t take just a minute. I have some questions and after you said your piece, I’ll leave,” Sheriff Hammonds said.

I turned and stepped back to the ground and stood face to face with the sheriff. “Questions? This sounds serious. What’s going on?”

“Remember Curtis Johnson?” he asked.

“Sure. He was a no-count in town. Stayed drunk most of the time. Yeah, I know him. Did something happen to him?”

“He was killed last night. Can you tell me where you were? There is an eyewitness who says it was you. They saw you running away after you fired your gun and shot him. Were you here on the ranch?”

I stood erect and firm. “Looked like me, Sheriff? Someone said it was me who killed him?”

“That is what they are saying. Did you do it? I’ve known you, Blake, since you were born. I know you didn’t, but since you have been identified I have to ask.”

“No. It wasn’t me.”

“Where were you?” he asked again. “Were you here on the ranch?”

“It wasn’t me, Sheriff. You have to believe me.”

“I want to believe you. But if you don’t answer my question as to where you were, I will have to take you in.”

When I refused to answer again, he turned me around and handcuffed me.

Sitting in the jail cell, Sheriff Hammonds continued asking me of my whereabouts on that cold night. I would not answer.

A week later, I heard the jingling of the keys. I was being set free. But I was wrong.

“The judge is here, Blake. Your trial will begin in an hour. Come on.”

The trial was short. The judge stated that Curtis Johnson was shot down under the town hall lights on October 30, 1878. He then repeated what everyone else had been saying that the shooter who ran away was identified as me, Blake Jackson.

He asked, “What is your alibi? Where were you on the night of October 30? If you would tell the court where you were, then you won’t have to die. If you refuse, you will be hung by the neck. Do you understand the charges and the penalty?”

I looked into the eyes of the judge and did not say a word.

“Take him back to the jail. Get the scaffold built.”

The slamming of the gavel could be heard throughout the courthouse.

“Blake. Just tell the judge where you were!” yelled Clint Houser. “I’ve known you your whole life. I know you didn’t do it. Just tell the judge where you were!” he pleaded.

I raised my head and looked at my best friend. I opened my mouth, closed it and walked out with the sheriff.

I could hear the scaffold being built outside my jail cell. Occasionally I looked out the window and watched. Clint came to see me every day while I waited for the hammering to stop.

“I was out of town on October 30, Blake, so I don’t know what happened that night. So, tell me so I can make sense of this,” Clint begged.

Finally, the sound of the building stopped. I could hear them dropping the sandbags through the opening of the floor making sure it would do the job.

The sheriff asked me what I would like for my last meal. I shrugged my shoulders and turned my back. Later that evening, the aroma of fried chicken filtered through the sheriff’s office down the aisle of the jail cells. Once again, the keys jingled and the sheriff brought me my last meal.

“Do you have anything to say, Blake?”

“No sir.”

I watched his back as he turned away from me and slowly walked down the jail cell aisle back to his office. I heard him plop down into his chair and knowing his habits, I heard him roll to the window to view the street outside.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the street was like. Were people still going about their daily lives while I sat in this lonely jail cell? I placed my face in my hands and wiped away silent tears.

The next morning, I was handcuffed and guided to the scaffold. With a deputy standing on each side, their hands on my secured arms, I stumbled up the steps. The deputies were patient as Buck whispered the Lord’s prayer on my last walk on earth. I had known Buck most of my life. I heard a sniffle as they ushered me onto the platform. The noose swung gently in the cool breeze. I stood looking at the noose and then to the crowd that had gathered around. My eyes skimmed over the town’s people. I knew most of them but I was searching for someone in particular. My eyes fell on her. She looked up at me and then quickly back down staring at the ground around her. In a long black dress, she stood tall and strong and beautiful as ever. I did not see a tear.

“Do you have any last words, Son?”

Even though it meant I would die, I never told a soul where I was that night of October 30, 1878. Clint, my best friend, would never know I was with his wife. Nobody knew but me.

I know she is out there. On the cold, dark nights with the moaning breeze, I see her gliding through the gray markers. There she sheds her tears. Her long black veil covers her saddened face. The breeze touches it and allows it to drape over her lengthy mourning dress. She visits my grave and cries over my bones as the night wind wails.