Page 58 of Death on Gallows Path

I looked at him at this second reference to the distance of time.

He did not return it.

“Rainey Bethea confessed five times — all without representation. Coerced? Possibly. One of his confessions included where Lischia Edwards’ stolen jewelry was and it was found there.”

The years I lived with Kit taught me a lot of things, including how to spot potential holes. Could the jewelry have been found, then the location written into one of the five confessions made without representation?

Not a huge leap. But one that landed us back in the morass of Could we know that from this distance of time?

“The execution warrant specified that he was to be hanged in the courthouse yard,” Urban continued. “The county said it had recently gone to considerable expense to plant shrubs and flowers there, so the site was moved to an empty lot nearby.”

“Which allowed a larger crowd?” Kit’s skepticism midwifed my question.

He lifted one shoulder. “There certainly was a large crowd. Reports of the number varied greatly — as did reports on all aspects of the event — with ten- to twenty-thousand being the most frequent. Either would require many coming from out of town.

“That hanging drew attention in part because it was expected to be the first execution by a woman. The sheriff of Daviess County — that is with a double s at the end.”

“Named after somebody named Daviess?”

I regretted the question as soon as it came out.

“As it happens, no. There was an error made by the State Clerk’s office, which was never corrected. However, it was not the double s at the end. The county was meant to honor one Joseph Hamilton Daveiss, that’s D-A-V-E-I-S-S — E-I, not I-E. He was an early U.S. Attorney in Kentucky, married the sister of John Marshall. He also died at the Battle of Tippecanoe. I cannot vouch that it was the reason he had a county named after him — nearly named after him. He was quite an interesting character. In court, he dressed as a backwoodsman, was known for his sarcasm, and for calling judges such things as Your Stupidity, Your Pomposity, Your Asininity. But I digress.”

And darned if I hadn’t noticed.

“As I was saying, that 1936 public hanging in Owensboro drew added interest because the sheriff was a woman.”

“How did that happen?”

I know, I know, I invited another digression. In my defense, when I told Kit about this, if I didn’t know that answer, I’d never be forgiven. And I wanted to know.

“The sheriff had died in April of pneumonia and his wife, Florence Shoemaker Thompson, became sheriff under the widow’s succession practice of the early part of the Twentieth Century. You might be most familiar with it from when male members of the U.S. House or, more rarely, the Senate died and the widow filled the remainder of the term.”

Or I might not be familiar, but this time I didn’t highlight that.

“That a woman would execute the condemned man by releasing the trap door was a sensation. As it happened, a former Louisville police officer volunteered for that duty. However, he arrived drunk, according to witnesses, including the experienced hangman, who expressed disgust with the conduct of the execution. The hangman said he shouted to the volunteer to Do it! But he did not, leaving it to a deputy to trigger the trap door.

“The inflow of spectators and the gawping about the woman sheriff added to widespread disapproval. The event sparked a revulsion of feeling throughout the country, resulting in the end of public hangings.”

“How does all this connect to our Gallows Path?”

“Ah,” he said, sounding pleased. “Except for a woman being sheriff, it could have been North Bend County. The last here occurred mere weeks before Rainey Bethea’s hanging in Owensboro. Two local men were charged with attacking a young woman traveling through the county with her family. They stayed at an inn in the southwest corner of the county. The young lady went for a walk and never returned.

“After a brief search, the sheriff’s office found her body, along with items that led to two local men, both described as stumbling drunk when they headed in the direction that would have intercepted the young lady.

“The trial was nearly as short as Bethea’s. The twist was that after conviction, but before sentencing, the judge allowed one of the convicted men out on bail, reportedly because he was the only child of a wealthy family and needed to put his affairs in order — as opposed to the other, whose family was poor.”

“Allowed out on bail after being convicted of murder?”

“Of rape. As with Rainey Bethea, they were not charged with murder. That defendant was never heard from again. His parents remained here, in straightened circumstances while their property crumbled around them.”

“Because the bail was forfeited?”

He made a noncommittal sound. “The other man was hanged in an area used for gatherings at the end of what became known as Gallows Path. This man by the name of Felix Alsup was the last publicly hanged in North Bend County, as I said, shortly before Bethea.”

His glance prepared me for an incoming bombshell.

“The judge in the case was a direct ancestor of Damon Swindell. After that case, he appeared to live in greatly improved circumstances.”