Williamson, it developed, was yet another of Deacon Jim’s relatives–a nephew, in fact–and had sheltered his uncle before and after the killing. Miller had borrowed a mare from Williamson, admitting to him that he had killed a man and threatening to kill his nephew if he talked.

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Miller was traced to Ardmore, Okla., and his landlady there told officers the Deacon had been carrying a shotgun. The trail then led to a youngster named Peeler, who admitted that he had been paid to take Miller to Ada. West and Allen had paid Miller his $2,000 fee through a livestock speculator named Berry Burrell.

The law moved quickly then. Burrell was arrested in Texas and returned to Ada. Then a tip led lawmen to the brakes of the Trinity River near Fort Worth and to Miller, who was arrested without resistance. By the first of April, he was securely locked in the Ada jail. Allen and West were lured out of Texas by a simple–and wholly fraudulent–wire: ‘Come to Ada at once. Need $10,000. Miller.’

By April 6, all the conspirators were jailed. Miller, Burrell, West and Allen occupied cells in Ada. Peeler and Williamson, ready and eager to testify for the state, had been moved to another town. Sensing the temper of the town, Allen and West were terrified that Judge Lynch would hurry the course of the law a little too much. As it turns out, their instincts were excellent, even if their morals were not.

The good citizens of Ada had had about enough of due process. They had been treated to the spectacle of Miller living high on the hog in jail, shaving twice a day, changing his sheets each morning, eating steak brought in from the Elite Cafe, even softening the floor of his cell with carpet. They knew, too, that he was openly scornful of the pitiful attempts of the state to punish him. After all, he had been tried repeatedly before, without success. A regular army of Texas and New Mexico cattlemen was ready to give testimonials for him; a multitude of wires and letters praised his character.

And, as he had before, Miller shrewdly retained the best lawyer around, in this case Moman Pruitt. Pruitt was a legend, a dynamic litigator who had never had a client executed, winning acquittals in 304 of his 342 murder cases. The citizens of Ada could read the omens as well as Miller could.

And so, in the early morning hours of Sunday, April 19, about 40 men broke into the jail, overpowered and bound the two lawmen there and pulled Miller, West, Allen and Burrell out of their cells. Down an alley they dragged their prisoners, into an abandoned livery stable behind the jail.

The mob wasted no time. The prisoners were bound with bailing wire, and ropes were tossed over the rafters of the gloomy stable. Miller’s three co-defendants were quickly jerked from the floor to twitch and convulse in ghastly silence. Then it was Miller’s turn, and the implacable men around him urged him to confess his crimes.

Miller, to his credit, was as impassive as he had been when he blew other men into eternity. ‘Let the record show,’ he said, ‘that I’ve killed 51 men.’ He pulled off a diamond ring and asked that it be given to his wife; a diamond shirt stud he left to the jailer for some kindness. Then, as the noose slid around his neck, Deacon Jim Miller asked for his trademark, his black broadcloth coat. ‘I’d like to have my coat,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to die naked.’

No, said the posse members; they had had enough of the cool killer’s effrontery. At his repeated request, somebody did set Killin’ Jim’s hat on the side of his head, and Miller actually laughed. ‘I’m ready now,’ he supposedly said. ‘You couldn’t kill me otherwise. Let her rip!’

The vigilantes pulled away, and at last, after Miller’s convulsive struggles were over, one of the mob hung Deacon Jim’s famous coat across his shoulders. ‘It won’t help him now,’ he said. The executioners went home through a misty rain, leaving the four bodies hanging in the gloom of the empty stable.

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