Walter B. Butchart, aged 21, was appointed to fill out the unexpired term of his father, William B. Butchart, also known as "Old W. W.", when the latter died in his sleep Aug. 28, 1904.  The following day, Walter pinned on the gold star and became the youngest sheriff on record in St. Louis county and one of the youngest in the nation.

Five Stars for the Deputy by Don C. Wright

It’s no flight of fancy to say that Deputy Sheriff Byron W. W. Butchart was born under two stars – the stars that give a sheriff his badge of authority.

When you ask Butchart, known throughout the county as “Butch,” for his badge he could counter with the question: “which one?”  Butch has four besides his own.

Wearing a sheriff’s star has run in the Butchart family since 1894 when William W. Butchart, usually referred to as “Old W.W.,” took office.  One of the stars Butch wears was given to his grandfather, Old W.W., by his deputies on Christmas day, 1895.

“This is the one my granddad wore for years,” says Butch, as he fingers the solid gold, diamond-studded five-pointed star.  “Sheriff Sam Owens gave the permission to wear it when Dad died in 1934 and I was appointed deputy.”

Butch’s dad, Walter B., filled out the unexpired term of Old W. W. when the latter died in his sleep Aug. 28, 1904.  The following day, Walter pinned on the gold star and became the youngest sheriff on record in St. Louis county and one of the youngest in the nation.

The Butcharts have left their mark on the pages of St. Louis county and Minnesota history. 

Old W. W. did so when he let spring the trap of the scaffold in the last legal execution in Minnesota before the state abandoned capital punishment.

Assisted by his son Walter, Sheriff Butchart acted as hangman in the execution of Charles E. L. Henderson, in the old county courthouse, then located at Sixth avenue east and Third street.

The sheriff, according to old files of the Duluth News-Tribune, was executioner because nobody else applied for the job although a logger from the northwoods inquired about it.

Henderson was convicted of the first-degree murder of Miss Ida McCormack on the night of June 21, 1902.  The knifing took place in a rooming house located at 319 West First Street, present site of a laundry.

The gallows was set up in court room No. 1 where Henderson heard the jury return a verdict of guilty and the judge imposed the death sentence.

Instead of harboring any ill feeling against the sheriff, Henderson, a well-education, Bible-quoting man, presented Butchart and his deputies with a rose each from the large bouquet placed outside his cell by his sister.

In a 30-minute speech from the top step of the gallows that sunny March 6, 1903, the condemned man thanked the sheriff for the fine treatment he had received while he was a prisoner and said: “Upon those who were instrumental in securing my conviction I ask nothing but the blessings of God.  I bear no malice.  They did what they considered to be their duty, and so let the law take its course.”

Butch joined the sheriff’s staff when his father, Walter, died.  He was appointed deputy by Sheriff Owens in 1934 and served ever since.

“The badges tell the story,” he says.  “When Granddad took office, the star had six points.  He wore an old nickel star until the deputies have him a gold one.  In 1895, they gave him the gold star I wear now.  That has five points.  Later, they started using the shield.”

He still carries the silver shield, No. 35, that his father wore.  It’s weighted down in back with lead counterfeit coins which a would-be passer tried to get rid of in the county before he ran afoul of the law.

From his grandfather and father, and later from Sheriff Owens, Butch learned the trade, and learned it well.  He is known all over Duluth and surrounding territory.  He is equally well liked by his fellow deputies and persons outside the office – from the bowery to the best sections of the city.

Butch started in the days when nocturnal stills were in operation in the outlying territory.
“I hadn’t been a deputy very long,” he recalls, “before I was sent out to pick up a couple of bootleggers who had been dodging us for quite awhile.”

“I was unknown then, so I didn’t have much trouble.  I just put on old clothes, let my beard grow, grabbed a packsack and went into this country store up north.

“The boys asked me to sit in on a game of poker, and later offered me a drink.  After I’d had one and paid for it, I made the pinch.”

Of Butch’s work, Sheriff Owens said: “He’s a good worker, conscientious and well-liked.  And he’s absolutely fearless.”

The last trait resulted in Butch’s closest brush with death.

One winter night in 1946, he was on duty in the office when he got a call from the jailer at the county jail.  A mental prisoner had gone berserk in his cell and the jailer wanted Butch to quiet him down.

“I know now I should have used water,” he says, “but I didn’t know it then.  I went into the cell and, after a struggle, got him quieted.”

He didn’t do it, though, before the insane prisoner hit him several times with pieces of broken pipe he obtained by smashing a cell radiator.

“I never saw the man,” says Butch, “because he had broken the lights and I had to wrestle him down in the dark.  I didn’t hit him once.”

Butch collapsed when he returned to the office and was found sometime later.  Hosptial officials said he had a severe brain injury and would require the services of a specialist.

“I was taken to Rochester,” he says, “where one of the three men in the world who could perform the operation was working.  He told me I had a 50-50 chance with surgery and no chance without it.  I took the gamble.”

Taking the bet meant two hours and 47 minutes on the operating table – without an anaesthetic.  “I had to be completely conscious so they could watch my reactions,” he explained.

When asked if the operation was painful, he replied, with his characteristic roar: “Nothing bothers me, brother!”

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