The Third Western Novel

by Noel Loomis

  Corliss laughed shortly. “I was over there one time, when there was a lot of thunder. Yeah, it sort of sounded like somebody rolling a drum with sticks. Not hard to understand, I guess. That big flat-topped mesa is just honeycombed with caves and tunnels. They probably pick up the noise of the thunder and set up reverberations. Don’t bother to make a trip to hear it, Greg. It’s tough getting a horse up there.”

  “I reckon so,” Quist nodded. He glanced over the assembled crowd. There was a buzz of conversation all around. The heat was bringing out perspiration on red faces. “Cripes!”—Quist consulted his watch—“It’s after ten now, what’s holding up the inquest?”

  “We’re waiting for Doc to bring his jury back from the undertaker’s, where the jury members are supposed to be viewing the body,” Arbuckle explained. “I don’t envy them the job. I had the task of bringing Porter’s body in. Five hours of that sort of company is enough.”

  “Can’t say I blame you, Fred,” Quist said. He glanced through the crowd again, but saw nothing of Kate Porter or her brother, Gene.

  Lish Corliss gestured toward the closed double doors of the County House. “Once those doors are open, there’s going to be a rush to get in—and I know damn’ well that upstairs hall won’t hold all this mob. I’m going to have my hands full.”

  “I’ll help you, Lish,” Arbuckle said. “You get up there ahead of the crowd. I’ll stay here at the door and sort of slow ’em down. Damned if I can understand how folks who are always complaining how much work they’ve got to do, can always find time to come to town to attend an inquest over some murdered hombre. I call it downright morbid.”

  The crowd stirred. Somebody exclaimed, “Here comes Doc and his jury.” Necks craned to see Ingram and the six men with him who had been chosen for duty on the coroner’s jury.

  Corliss took Quist’s sleeve. “Come along with me, Greg, and get ahead of the crowd.” Quist nodded and the two men pressed through the throng. Corliss opened one of the big double doors and motioned for Quist to precede him. “Just go straight up the stairs. Front row of chairs is reserved for witnesses—” He broke off, appealing to people who pushed toward the door. “Take it easy, folks. There’s no use—”

  Whatever else he may have added, was lost to Quist. Straight before him was a flight of steps to the second floor. Quist went on up with Corliss on his heels. Below they could hear Arbuckle appealing to the prospective audience to go slow. Behind them, feet thumped on the steps. A man swore and some woman informed him he was no gentleman. An instant later, Quist emerged on the upper floor where the inquest was to be held.

  CHAPTER 10

  A SURPRISE WITNESS

  The room was a large one, with open windows on either side to afford some ventilation, though not much, Quist considered, with the hot sun beating down on the roof overhead. Rows of chairs had been set out, and the instant he entered the room, Quist had spotted Kate Porter and Gene Thornton seated in the front row. He moved up and sat down next to them, receiving a pleasant enough “’Morning,” from Gene, and a serious nod from Kate. Behind him, Lish Corliss was doing what was possible to slow the rush of people and indicate chairs to them. Arbuckle was at the head of the stairs now accomplishing what he could to keep various eager ones from getting ribs crushed at the upper doorway. Voices shrilled through the room, there was an uneasy stirring until as many people as possible could get seated. It was a hopeless task: by the time the inquest started, men were jammed on the stairway and the crowd overflowed to the street.

  Quist, seated next to Kate Porter in the front row which was now filled, said, “I was surprised to see you two already up here.”

  “Doc Ingram suggested it. We’ve been here over an hour. He wanted to talk to me before the inquest opened. Besides, it was better than having to push in with the crowd.”

  Gene Thornton scowled. “I’ll be damn’ glad when this is over with. I still don’t like the idea of Kate having to testify.”

  “What’s bothering you?” Quist asked.

  He didn’t receive an answer, for at that moment Ingram came down the aisle between chairs, followed by his jury, and the noise of conversation rose higher above the seats as various men called greetings to the jury members they recognized. The jury, dressed in its Sunday best, soberly took seats near a table at the front of the room. By this time Lish Corliss and Fred Arbuckle were also seated in the front row, though as the inquest proceeded, Corliss more than once made his way to the back of the room to quiet voices at the top of the stairway.

  Doc Ingram took his seat at the table, and riffled through some papers. A clerk sat at an end of the same table, prepared to take notes on the testimony to be heard. The table held a gavel, a copy of the Bible, pens, pencils and ink. Already the air in the big room was thick with the odor of perspiration, cigarette and pipe smoke and heat. Ingram rapped on the table with his gavel and rose to his feet. The room fell silent.

  After a few moments’ wait, Ingram launched into a short speech, stating that he, as duly elected coroner of Clarion City, had called this inquest to determine, if possible, who had been responsible for the death of Lloyd Porter. The doctor added, a bit sharply, that the inquest was not to be construed as a trial of any one person, regardless of what testimony might be forthcoming and such baseless rumors, based on gossip, which seemed to be floating around town. No, this was not a trial, in any sense.

  “However,” Ingram added, “I want it distinctly understood that all witnesses will be speaking under oath. Any failure to speak truth, if discovered, will result in a charge of perjury. And the law provides very strict penalties to cover perjurers. Witnesses will please keep my warning in mind at all times. And now we’ll get to business.”

  There were a few preliminaries, during which Ingram stated he had already done some investigating and would call to the stand to testify, certain people he thought should be heard. He described the death wound that had ended Lloyd Porter’s life: “…a blast from a shotgun, fired fairly close to the victim. The shell had been loaded with #2 shot…” The doctor’s medical testimony was somewhat too technical for the majority of the audience, and when some man in the seats a few rows back was heard explaining to his wife that “Doc means he had his face plumb blowed off,” that appeared to fill the bill better than all the long words Ingram had been forced to employ for the sake of the record. The doctor went on,

  “Due to the condition of the body I’ve found it difficult to establish the exact time of death, but to the best of my ability I’d say Lloyd Porter was killed on the 13th of this month. It was yesterday that Ranger Arbuckle found the body and brought it in. The 17th of the month. Therefore I’m assuming the deceased had been dead about four days when the body was found. That’s as close as I can hit it, though I could be in error nearly a full day, either way, of course.”

  Various minor witnesses were then called, testifying as to the last time they had seen or talked to Lloyd Porter, but nothing definite was learned from their testimony. The last person apparently to see him alive, was a cowhand from the Rafter-Z named Gunnerson, who had encountered Porter “…oh, say just ’bout a month back. I was out lookin’ for a stud-hawss that had broke outten his corral, when I spot Porter ridin’ near Shoulder Bluff. Whut’s that, Doc? No, he was considerable rods away, so I didn’t talk to him. He waved and kept on goin’. I figgered mebbe he was out to hunt. Looked like he carried a scatter-gun. Had somethin’ bulky lashed on behind his saddle—could have been a satchel, though mebbe not. I couldn’t say for sure.”

  Quist considered the cowhand’s words. It was “just ’bout a month back” that eastbound #24 had been stalled by the man-made landslide. Gunnerson was excused from further testifying, and Ranger Arbuckle called to the stand. He was sworn in on the Bible and told of finding the body in the foothills of the Clarin Mountains, repeating what Quist had already heard.

  Ingram asked, “Was there any sign of Porter’s horse in the vicinity?”

  Arbuckle said promptly
, “None. I carried the body to town lashed across my saddle, with me hanging on back of the cantle. It wasn’t pleasant nowise, nor did my pony take to the idea. That dead body put him on the prod considerable. He started to buck, then took out to run. Had a job handling him. But he was headed toward town so I didn’t check him none once he was straightened out. Thinking it over, I don’t expect it took more than three or four hours to reach Cromlech’s place, but with a grisly load of that sort, I thought we’d never get to town. Seemed like I was riding five or six hours.”

  “A nasty job,” Ingram agreed. “Did you see any prints or sign of any sort near the body, or find the shotgun that had been used?”

  “Looked for sign. Couldn’t find any. Couldn’t see any gun around, either, except that pearl-handled six-shooter which was in Porter’s holster.”

  A few more questions were asked, of minor import, then Gene Thornton was called and sworn. After asking how long Thornton had known Porter, their relations and so on, Ingram said, “You identified the body as that of Lloyd Porter, Mr. Thornton.”

  “I did.”

  “On what did you base your identification?”

  Gene frowned, thoughtfully. “Oh, on a number of things. The color of Porter’s hair, shape of his head, build and so forth. The clothing he wore, his boots. The boots were a rather expensive pair, most men don’t buy. Then there was that pearl-butted gun in his holster. There were papers in his pocket.” Gene paused.

  “What sort of papers?”

  “A letter addressed to him—that is, an envelope. It contained no letter, or return address. It had been posted from some place in New Mexico—Albuquerque, if I remember correctly. It could have been in a woman’s handwriting, though I’m not sure. There were a couple of receipted bills from firms in town, here. I recognized a pocket-knife Porter carried.”

  “And you feel sure of your identification?”

  “I’m positive. Other men who saw the body at Cromlech’s agreed with me it was Porter’s body.”

  “Mr. Thornton, do you happen to remember where you were on,”—Ingram hesitated—“we-ell, let’s say on the 13th of this month—or on the days before and after the 13th?”

  Thornton flushed. “On the 12th I was in Clarion City. Rode in to get the mail. Stayed all day. On the 14th I was at the ranch all day. On the 13th I was painting.”

  “Where?”

  “On a bend of Clarin Creek—Rio Clarin some folks call it.”

  “Why did you pick that particular spot?”

  Thornton’s face reddened. “Look here, Doc, that’s some few miles from the place where Porter was found by Arbuckle—”

  Ingram cut in sharply, “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just trying to learn why you happened to go there that day.”

  Thornton swallowed hard and said, “I’m sorry. As a matter of fact I hadn’t intended to go there, that is, not to paint, leastwise. Sowbelly—Sowbelly Handson—he’s our cook on the Rocking-T—mentioned it would be nice to have a change of food on the table, so I took my shotgun—”

  Thornton paused as a buzz of conversation rose through the room. Ingram picked up the gavel and rapped for silence. When the hall had quieted, Thornton continued, “I took my shotgun thinking I might find a few prairie hens for cookie’s pot. Didn’t happen to see any, by the time I came to Clarin Creek. There’s an old cottonwood there with one bough stretching out across the water and the reflections were so fine I—” He broke off. “Anyway, you don’t care about that. I always carry some paper and paints with me, when I go out, so I stopped and made a number of sketches. Before I realized it, the sun had started to drop and I came home.”

  “Without getting any game?”

  “I didn’t even fire my gun,” Thornton said emphatically.

  Ingram smiled to relieve the tension. “I think possibly your mind was more on painting than getting prairie chickens.”

  “That’s possible,” Thornton said soberly.

  A minute later he was allowed to be reseated. Kate Porter’s name was called. She rose and took her oath on the Bible. Conversation again rose through the room; there was a good deal of chattering among the women, and Quist distinctly heard a couple of derogatory remarks from a pair of old crows seated three rows back. There was considerable pious sniffing. Kate had changed her clothing of the night before, and now wore riding boots, a divided riding skirt and a mannish gray flannel shirt with blue bandanna tied at the throat. A worn spot across the right hip of her skirt showed where a gun-belt and holster usually rested. Her mass of blond hair was tucked beneath a flat-crowned black sombrero, which looked as though it had seen plenty of wear.

  The mutterings and whisperings increased through the room. Ingram was rapping sharply on the table with his gavel. Gradually the noise subsided, while the girl stood straight, defiant, challenging, looking out over the rows of faces, her steady brown eyes almost contemptuous, imperious. Quist thought, Lord, what a handsome woman. And with plenty courage, too. But stubborn as hell.

  With the room finally silent, waiting eagerly for Kate’s testimony, the doctor started his preliminary questioning. Kate answered clearly and with sharp incisiveness each question. Somewhat impatiently, she finally broke in, “It may save time, Doctor Ingram, if I tell you now I also was out with my shotgun on the day of the 13th. I’d heard cookie’s remark about a change of diet for our table too. I, also, decided to see if I couldn’t bag a few prairie chickens, so I saddled up, took my gun—”

  Various gasps were raised in the room, again voices were set buzzing. A man behind Quist muttered to his companion, “Probably the two of ’em ganged up on Porter…” Ingram pounded furiously with his gavel. Two of the jurors looked definitely enraged and the looks they directed toward Kate were ominous. Quist said to himself, “Dammit! She’ll be putting a loop around her own throat with her arrogant manner.”

  Gradually, the noise died away. Kate continued steadily as if there’d been no interruption, “I didn’t know of course that my brother had set out for the same purpose as I. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know until he testified, where he had gone that day. I saw him ride in that night and he said something about painting. That was all I knew.” Again her eyes swept the audience as though to say, “Make of this what you will and to hell with it.”

  Ingram said, “Thank you very much for volunteering this information, Mrs. Porter. It has saved time. And I’m sure no one will be foolish enough to assume anything from your testimony beyond the fact that you’re doing all possible to expedite this inquiry.” He paused, eyes suddenly hard, as they gazed steadily at various individuals about the room. Then he smiled suddenly and turned back to Kate, “I hope you had better luck than your brother, Mrs. Porter.”

  “I brought back seven birds,” the girl stated.

  “And where did you do this shooting?”

  “Within a few miles from the ranch house.” She added, “I was nowhere near the foothills of the mountains where—where my husband’s body was found.”

  “Did you see your brother that day?”

  Kate hesitated, then said “No—that is, I saw him right after breakfast and when he rode in late that afternoon, but not during the hours between.”

  “How long were you away from the ranch house?”

  “Several hours.”

  “It took some time to scare up those birds, I imagine.”

  “Not so long, actually,” Kate said, “but I was in no hurry to return. I—I had certain problems to think out. When I’m at the ranch there are always things coming up to be attended to.”

  Ingram said, “I quite understand. Mrs. Porter, when did you last see your husband?”

  “It was just a month ago yesterday—I’m not sure of the exact date. Anyway, it was the morning of the day that freight train was stalled. I remember it because I was in Clarion City the next morning, and I heard people talking about it.”

  “That sets the date closely enough,” Ingram stated. “Did your husband tell you where he was
going that morning?”

  Kate shook her head, then conscious of the clerk writing nearby said, “No. However, when he saddled up near the corral, he told one of the hands he was riding to town. It was quite early, and I was rather surprised to hear of him leaving at that hour.”

  “You hadn’t talked to him before he left?”

  “No. We each had our own rooms at the ranch. He hadn’t waited for breakfast.” Kate’s mouth hardened a trifle. “I don’t think it is any secret around here, that my husband and I saw very little of each other, nor was I aware of his different business ventures.”

  “What exactly did Lloyd Porter do?” Ingram asked.

  “I haven’t the least idea,” Kate said tersely. “He talked vaguely of business here and there. Sometimes he said he dealt in cattle. Sometimes mining. He spoke once of buying up a bunch of horses and reselling them. Oh, he hinted at a number of deals, but never anything definite.”

  “Did he often leave for long periods of time?”

  “Quite frequently, but he was never gone as long as this last time. A week was generally the longest. Sometimes when he returned he’d say he’d been to Chicago, or out in California some place. I’ll say this, he always had money from these deals. I wasn’t particularly interested, but more than once he’s insisted on showing me big rolls of greenbacks or small sacks of gold coins.”

  Ingram nodded, “And this last time you were worried over his long absence?”

  A small frown appeared between Kate’s eyes. “Let’s say I was somewhat concerned,” she stated tartly. “People in town were doing a lot of talking. I didn’t like what they were saying—”

  Ingram broke in hastily, “I understand that—”

  “Doc!”—a man at the back could no longer contain himself—“Why don’t you ask her about that time on Main when she slashed him with her quirt and threatened to shoot him—?”

  The room broke into an uproar. Swearing angrily under his breath, Lish Corliss was already hurrying down the aisle, even before Ingram’s sharp, “Sheriff, eject that man!” cut through the noise. There was some short disturbance near the doorway before the disturber was put out and there came a rush to occupy his vacated seat by those crowding about the stairway. Corliss returned, face flushed. Order was quickly restored. Ingram said in cutting accents, “One more interruption from a fool of that sort—or fools—and we’ll continue this inquest behind closed doors. In justice to Mrs. Porter I want to say that that individual who caused the interruption was once jailed for six months for stealing Rocking-T cows. Doubtless he holds a grudge. I’ll brook no more of that sort of thing.”