A Bates County story of murder, justice—and a question that has never completely gone awayThere are places where history can be read in old books.
And then there are places where history seems to linger.
The old Bates County sheriff’s house and jail is one of those places.
More than a century ago, the building stood at the center of law and order in Bates County. Sheriff E.C. Mudd lived and worked there, and behind its walls men accused of terrible crimes were held in custody.
But in the winter of 1900, the building became associated with one of the darkest responsibilities a county sheriff could carry.
The responsibility of carrying out a lawful execution.
His name was Noah “Buck” McGinnis.
And the man charged with seeing that justice was carried out was Sheriff E.C. Mudd.
The story began more than a year before the hanging.
On the evening of April 16, 1899, Frederick W. Borcherding, a German farmer living in southern Bates County, went outside his home to tend to his livestock.
Inside were his wife, Margaret, and a hired man who was upstairs asleep.
According to the evidence later presented in court, Borcherding encountered another man outside.
What happened next was terrifying.
Borcherding suddenly ran back toward his house.
His wife heard the commotion.
A pistol was fired through the window, striking Borcherding in the back.
He collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
The darkness inside the house made the scene even more frightening. The lamp had gone out when the shot was fired.
The gunman entered the house and demanded money from Margaret Borcherding.
He showed her a pistol and ordered her to remain quiet.
When he failed to obtain the money he wanted, he took Margaret outside and continued demanding money from her.
Then he disappeared into the night.
Frederick Borcherding did not survive.
The bullet had inflicted a mortal wound. He lingered for three days before dying on April 19, 1899. The indictment described the wound as penetrating approximately nine inches into his body. (OpenJurist)
The crime was not simply murder.
The evidence established that the shooting occurred during an attempted robbery, and that became an important part of the prosecution’s case.
Investigators soon focused on Noah McGinnis.
Witnesses had reportedly seen McGinnis traveling in the area that afternoon with other men.
When he was eventually arrested, he was carrying a .38-caliber Colt revolver, approximately $65 in cash, and a ticket to Nevada, Missouri.
Margaret Borcherding identified him as the man who had been inside her home.
There was also physical evidence connecting the bullet removed from Borcherding’s body with ammunition designed for the type of revolver McGinnis carried.
The prosecution presented additional testimony concerning McGinnis’s movements before and after the killing and statements he allegedly made while in custody.
McGinnis denied committing the murder and presented an alibi.
But the jury was not persuaded.
He was convicted of first-degree murder.
The Missouri Supreme Court later reviewed his case and upheld the conviction.
That sentence eventually placed an extraordinary burden on Bates County Sheriff E.C. Mudd.
In 1900, executions in Missouri were not necessarily carried out at a single state penitentiary.
They could take place at the county level.
And the records preserved by the Missouri State Archives contain something remarkably personal from this particular execution:
An actual invitation to the hanging of Noah McGinnis, issued by E.C. Mudd, Sheriff of Bates County.
The invitation was for an execution scheduled for December 20, 1900. The State Archives specifically preserve it as part of Missouri’s official Execution Document Collection. (Missouri Secretary of State)
This was not merely something written about years later.
Sheriff Mudd himself sent invitations.
He was the man responsible for the prisoner.
And on the appointed day, the scheduled hangman failed to arrive and Sheriff Mudd was responsible for carrying out the sentence of the court.
Imagine Bates County in December of 1900.
There were no flashing emergency lights.
There were horses, wagons, lanterns and men carrying out responsibilities that today seem almost impossible to imagine.
And somewhere inside the sheriff’s jail was a condemned man waiting for his final morning.
Outside, word of the execution would have traveled quickly through the community.
Some would have come because they believed justice demanded it.
Some may have come because they were curious.
Some may have come simply because executions were public spectacles in an era when death was far more visible than it is today.
And Sheriff Mudd had to stand in the middle of it all.
For him, this was not merely history.
The same sheriff who had arrested men, kept order, investigated crimes and protected the people of Bates County now had to oversee the death of a prisoner who had been placed in his custody.
At the appointed hour, the machinery of justice was put into motion.
Noah McGinnis was taken to the gallows.
The sheriff and those assisting him carried out the sentence.
And when it was over, the life of Noah “Buck” McGinnis was finished.
The records identify him as approximately 27-29 years old, depending on the source, when he was executed.
The Missouri State Archives date the execution December 20, 1900, although other historical sources have reported December 31, 1900. It’s reported that the execution was the last official duty performed by Sheriff Mudd.
Whatever the exact date, one fact is certain:
Sheriff E.C. Mudd was the Bates County sheriff responsible for the execution.
WHAT DID IT DO TO SHERIFF MUDD?
We know what happened to McGinnis.
We know what happened to Frederick Borcherding.
But what happened to the man standing between them?
What did an execution do to the sheriff who had to carry it out?
That part of the story is much harder to find.
History is often very good at recording dates.
It is much less interested in recording emotions.
We do not have a surviving diary from Sheriff Mudd telling us what he thought when the trap was released.
We do not know whether he slept well that night.
We do not know whether he believed McGinnis deserved his fate.
We do not know whether he prayed before carrying out the sentence.
And we do not know whether, years later, he ever walked through the old jail and remembered the man who had once occupied a cell there. One newspaper reported that on a return trip home Sheriff Mudd reported encountering the spirit of McGinnis on a trail.
But we do know something important.
Sheriff Mudd lived with the responsibility.
The execution was not something that happened somewhere far away.
It was connected directly to the office he held and the jail he operated.
The same building that housed prisoners, protected the community and represented the authority of the sheriff also became part of the final chapter of Noah McGinnis’s life.
AND THEN THERE IS THE QUESTION…
Today, more than 125 years later, the building remains.
The walls have witnessed generations come and go.
Children who were not yet born when McGinnis was executed eventually grew old.
But the building remained.
And that leaves us with a question.
Not a question that history can answer.
If a place witnesses enough human suffering, fear, desperation and death, can something of those moments remain behind?
Maybe the answer is simply no.
Maybe every strange sound has an explanation.
Maybe every cold spot is merely an old building settling.
Maybe every unexplained shadow is nothing more than a trick of the light.
Maybe ghosts are simply stories we tell ourselves because we want the past to remain alive.
some stories refuse to leave.
Imagine walking through the old sheriff’s jail after dark.
The town outside has changed completely.
Cars pass where horses once traveled.
Electric lights replace the lanterns.
The sheriff’s office is no longer what it was in 1900.
But the walls are still there.
And somewhere in that silence is the memory of a young man named Noah McGinnis…
A man convicted of shooting Frederick Borcherding during an attempted robbery.
A man who spent his final days behind the authority of Sheriff E.C. Mudd.
A man whose final journey ended at a Bates County gallows located directly behind the Jail and Sheriff’s residence.
And a sheriff who had to watch justice take its final step.
So the next time you stand inside this historic building, look around.
Is it only history that you feel here?
Or could there still be something—or someone—wandering these rooms?
Perhaps Noah “Buck” McGinnis left this property more than a century ago.
Or perhaps he never truly left at all.
The evidence is yours to decide.
The story is ours to remember.
#MidAmericaLive
