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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Western / Wild West
- Published: 02/27/2018
Much has been written about the man, William Preston Longley. Some of it legend. Some of it fact. Some of it fiction. What is true, though, is that he had a justified reputation as a killer of men. My Ma, though, knew a different side of this feared man.
9 October 1878 in Giddings, Texas was the day my real story began. It was the day I learned of my real Pa and my Mom's secret and also the day a man sentenced to hang in 2 days sent a sheriff's deputy to bring me to the jail.
I was 8 years old. I had heard of the man locked up in the jail. Everyone knew him to be a ruthless killer. In fact, killing, was the reason he was to be hanged. My Ma had taught me to respect a different lifestyle. She raised me a Christian. I believed that man had to be working for the devil's army and I had no interest in seeing a man working for the devil.
"You're John Smith aren't cha?", the deputy asked.
I shook my head yes.
"I'm to deliver ya to the Sheriff's office. Come with me."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Nope, just come with me."
I had no idea why I was called to the Sheriff's office, but if I was in trouble I was sure the deputy would have been a bit more disagreeable. I followed the man, a few steps behind, as he led me to our destination.
I had never been in trouble before. The man I was following, judging by his demeanor, apparently knew it.
This was very curious and I was anxious to find out what it was all about.
The deputy delivered me to his office and walked me over to face the man I'd been sent to see.
That man was William P. Longley. A man known for killing, just because he could.
I knew it was him. Everybody in town knew. His reputation was that he killed over thirty men.
But the man I was now facing looked older than his twenty-seven years would have suggested. He was unshaven and unclean. His eyes appeared puffy, perhaps I thought, from lack of sleep. I thought him to be a tall man, yet he didn't appear to be standing perfectly erect. After all, he had been a resident of the Giddings jail since March waiting to be hung.
Still, I could tell he was a man used to getting his way through abuse. The deputy had instructed me not to stand close to his prisoner's cell.
How is an eight-year-old boy supposed to react when face to face with a known killer? Even if the killer is behind bars?
I was frightened but determined not to let the man know it. So in an act of defiance, or perhaps it was a youthful ego, I took up a stance squarely in front of him, arms folded across my chest, feet apart, stood up tall, and looked straight into his eyes.
His silence was unnerving. The man was studying me. Or, perhaps he was trying to intimidate me for some perverse reason. I did not know which. But I stood my ground. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like minutes.
Everything about this visit was unexpected. An eight-year-old boy has a very active imagination, but no small boy would imagine what happened next. I was taken aback by what I thought I saw in his eye. A small tear.
Then the man began talking.
After all these years, I still remember what he said and what I was thinking.
"Son, you have sure grown up straight and tall. You're Ma must be very proud of you. I am too."
"What? Did he just tell me he knows my Ma? How could that be?" I was confused by what he said. It seemed as if he knew me and my mother, personally.
"I'm gonna hang in a couple days. I can't go to dyin without lettin you know. I'm not sure your Ma will tell you, but you need ta know.
Son, your name is William Preston Longley, Jr. You're my son. You're Ma was my wife. She was the love of my life.
I've been watching you and your Ma. I'm proud of you both. I wish it could have been different.
Now go back to your ma and tell her I'm sorry and I never stopped lovin' her."
He turned and walked to the back of his cell and stood there with his back to me.
I sensed it would be useless to talk to him. His body language told me so.
I called to the deputy and asked him to take me back home. As soon as the deputy opened the door to the street, I ran for home.
I was stunned and confused by what I just heard.
That killer just told me I was his son.
He had to be lying.
The outlaw, Longley, had a reputation for being ruthless. This had to be one of his cruel jokes. One that he would even play on an 8-year-old boy.
But there was that tear?
My mother always spoke nice things about my father. She told me her husband, my dad, was killed in a bank robbery the day I was born. So why was this man telling me he was my father?
He, he had to be lying.
“Could it be? Is he really my father? Did he really know my Ma? And they were husband and wife? How could my Ma know such an evil man?”
I was not yet ready to tell my mother why I was called to the jail. I wanted to think some more about what that bad man had just told me. Perhaps it really wasn’t true and he was indeed playing one last practical joke on an innocent person and I was, for some reason, the one he selected.
I didn’t want to worry Ma too much about my trip to the Sheriff’s office. She would, of course, be curious. And it did occur to me that she would fret about me meeting up with an outlaw sentenced to hang in a few days. Any mother would? I planned to tell her a logical lie about why the Deputy took me to the Sheriff’s office. What that evil man just told me had to be untrue and there was no sense worrying Ma about something that couldn’t be true.
My feet, though, let me down. They ran through the streets of Giddings, all the way to my house, non- stop, and straight into my mother’s arms.
I tried to hold back tears. It was too much unexpected and unwanted news for my young brain to comprehend. My mother gathered me up in her arms even tighter and held me there until she felt I was ready to tell her what was wrong. I stayed there for a long time trying to figure out how and what to say. I relaxed my hold around my mother’s waist a bit but did not let go.
Finally, she asked. “Honey, what’s wrong? What’s got you so upset?”
I broke down again. An eight-year-old boy is not supposed to cry this much. But I couldn’t help it. Once again, I sought for the comfort of my mother’s arms around me.
It was a few more minutes before I could tell Ma what happened at the jail.
“Ma, that evil man in the jail told me he was my Pa. That can’t be true!”
I was unprepared for what she did next. Ma started to cry.
I was sure I did something wrong. Perhaps I shouldn't have seen that man?
It was mid-afternoon before Ma was composed enough to talk with me.
"John", she started. "It's time to tell you about your dad"
"Is he really that man in the jail?"
"Yes, honey, he is."
"Is that what made you cry, Ma?"
"Yea! I, I just wasn't ready to talk to you about him yet. Sit down son. It's time."
She wiped a tear from her eye and began the story.
Incident at Giddings Jail(Ed DeRousse)
Much has been written about the man, William Preston Longley. Some of it legend. Some of it fact. Some of it fiction. What is true, though, is that he had a justified reputation as a killer of men. My Ma, though, knew a different side of this feared man.
9 October 1878 in Giddings, Texas was the day my real story began. It was the day I learned of my real Pa and my Mom's secret and also the day a man sentenced to hang in 2 days sent a sheriff's deputy to bring me to the jail.
I was 8 years old. I had heard of the man locked up in the jail. Everyone knew him to be a ruthless killer. In fact, killing, was the reason he was to be hanged. My Ma had taught me to respect a different lifestyle. She raised me a Christian. I believed that man had to be working for the devil's army and I had no interest in seeing a man working for the devil.
"You're John Smith aren't cha?", the deputy asked.
I shook my head yes.
"I'm to deliver ya to the Sheriff's office. Come with me."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Nope, just come with me."
I had no idea why I was called to the Sheriff's office, but if I was in trouble I was sure the deputy would have been a bit more disagreeable. I followed the man, a few steps behind, as he led me to our destination.
I had never been in trouble before. The man I was following, judging by his demeanor, apparently knew it.
This was very curious and I was anxious to find out what it was all about.
The deputy delivered me to his office and walked me over to face the man I'd been sent to see.
That man was William P. Longley. A man known for killing, just because he could.
I knew it was him. Everybody in town knew. His reputation was that he killed over thirty men.
But the man I was now facing looked older than his twenty-seven years would have suggested. He was unshaven and unclean. His eyes appeared puffy, perhaps I thought, from lack of sleep. I thought him to be a tall man, yet he didn't appear to be standing perfectly erect. After all, he had been a resident of the Giddings jail since March waiting to be hung.
Still, I could tell he was a man used to getting his way through abuse. The deputy had instructed me not to stand close to his prisoner's cell.
How is an eight-year-old boy supposed to react when face to face with a known killer? Even if the killer is behind bars?
I was frightened but determined not to let the man know it. So in an act of defiance, or perhaps it was a youthful ego, I took up a stance squarely in front of him, arms folded across my chest, feet apart, stood up tall, and looked straight into his eyes.
His silence was unnerving. The man was studying me. Or, perhaps he was trying to intimidate me for some perverse reason. I did not know which. But I stood my ground. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like minutes.
Everything about this visit was unexpected. An eight-year-old boy has a very active imagination, but no small boy would imagine what happened next. I was taken aback by what I thought I saw in his eye. A small tear.
Then the man began talking.
After all these years, I still remember what he said and what I was thinking.
"Son, you have sure grown up straight and tall. You're Ma must be very proud of you. I am too."
"What? Did he just tell me he knows my Ma? How could that be?" I was confused by what he said. It seemed as if he knew me and my mother, personally.
"I'm gonna hang in a couple days. I can't go to dyin without lettin you know. I'm not sure your Ma will tell you, but you need ta know.
Son, your name is William Preston Longley, Jr. You're my son. You're Ma was my wife. She was the love of my life.
I've been watching you and your Ma. I'm proud of you both. I wish it could have been different.
Now go back to your ma and tell her I'm sorry and I never stopped lovin' her."
He turned and walked to the back of his cell and stood there with his back to me.
I sensed it would be useless to talk to him. His body language told me so.
I called to the deputy and asked him to take me back home. As soon as the deputy opened the door to the street, I ran for home.
I was stunned and confused by what I just heard.
That killer just told me I was his son.
He had to be lying.
The outlaw, Longley, had a reputation for being ruthless. This had to be one of his cruel jokes. One that he would even play on an 8-year-old boy.
But there was that tear?
My mother always spoke nice things about my father. She told me her husband, my dad, was killed in a bank robbery the day I was born. So why was this man telling me he was my father?
He, he had to be lying.
“Could it be? Is he really my father? Did he really know my Ma? And they were husband and wife? How could my Ma know such an evil man?”
I was not yet ready to tell my mother why I was called to the jail. I wanted to think some more about what that bad man had just told me. Perhaps it really wasn’t true and he was indeed playing one last practical joke on an innocent person and I was, for some reason, the one he selected.
I didn’t want to worry Ma too much about my trip to the Sheriff’s office. She would, of course, be curious. And it did occur to me that she would fret about me meeting up with an outlaw sentenced to hang in a few days. Any mother would? I planned to tell her a logical lie about why the Deputy took me to the Sheriff’s office. What that evil man just told me had to be untrue and there was no sense worrying Ma about something that couldn’t be true.
My feet, though, let me down. They ran through the streets of Giddings, all the way to my house, non- stop, and straight into my mother’s arms.
I tried to hold back tears. It was too much unexpected and unwanted news for my young brain to comprehend. My mother gathered me up in her arms even tighter and held me there until she felt I was ready to tell her what was wrong. I stayed there for a long time trying to figure out how and what to say. I relaxed my hold around my mother’s waist a bit but did not let go.
Finally, she asked. “Honey, what’s wrong? What’s got you so upset?”
I broke down again. An eight-year-old boy is not supposed to cry this much. But I couldn’t help it. Once again, I sought for the comfort of my mother’s arms around me.
It was a few more minutes before I could tell Ma what happened at the jail.
“Ma, that evil man in the jail told me he was my Pa. That can’t be true!”
I was unprepared for what she did next. Ma started to cry.
I was sure I did something wrong. Perhaps I shouldn't have seen that man?
It was mid-afternoon before Ma was composed enough to talk with me.
"John", she started. "It's time to tell you about your dad"
"Is he really that man in the jail?"
"Yes, honey, he is."
"Is that what made you cry, Ma?"
"Yea! I, I just wasn't ready to talk to you about him yet. Sit down son. It's time."
She wiped a tear from her eye and began the story.
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