“And everyone in the audience yells back at him, ‘Pew!’”
Cal laughed. “So then Eddie Foy says . . . he says, ‘No, thath what the pretty woman thaid when the cowboy that down bethide her. Pew.’”
“So the pretty woman told him what the bench was called?” Pearlie asked.
“No!” Cal said in exasperation. “Don’t you get the joke? She said ‘Pew’ ’cause the cowboy was stinkin’ up the place.”
“Oh,” Pearlie said. He laughed. “Yes, that is funny.”
“He was real funny,” Cal said. “He told a lot of funny stories and I can remember most of ’em, but they aren’t as funny when I tell them.”
“Well, that’s ’cause Eddie Foy does that for a livin’, and he’s good at it,” Pearlie said. “You’re a cowboy who . . .” Pearlie paused and looked at the rakes he and Cal were holding. “No, we are cowboys,” he corrected, “who muck out horse manure for a living.”
Cal laughed. “I reckon that’s so.”
“Cal, how would you like to go back?”
“Go back? Go back where?”
“To Sugarloaf.”
“I thought we wasn’t going to go back there as long as we were a burden on Smoke and Miss Sally,” Cal said.
“Miss Sally would correct you and say weren’t,” Pearlie said.
“Well, but didn’t you say we weren’t going back to be a burden on Smoke and Miss Sally?”
“That’s what I said all right,” Pearlie said. “But if we go back now, we won’t be a burden.”
“How do you figure that?”
Pearlie stopped mucking and looked around the stable to make sure no one was close enough to overhear him. “I played some cards last night,” Pearlie said. “And I won some money.”
“How much did you win?”
“Two hundred seventeen dollars,” Pearlie replied with a broad smile.
“Two hundred dollars?” Cal asked in amazement.
“Two hundred seventeen,” Pearlie corrected.
“That’s a lot of money!”
“It sure is,” Pearlie said. “It’s enough to go back and help out.”
“When do we leave?”
“Today,” Pearlie said.
“Have you said anything to Mr. Thornton?”
“Yes, I told him we would be leaving today. In fact, we could leave right now if we wanted to, but I promised him we would finish with the stalls before we left.”
“Yeah,” Cal said. “That’s only right.”
The two men began raking with renewed vigor. Then, after a few minutes, Cal looked up.
“That’s why you didn’t want to go see Eddie Foy last night, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Pearlie said. “I just had a feelin’ I was going to be lucky. And it turns out that the feelin’ was true.”
Creedlove sat nursing his drink in the back of the saloon in the little town of Solidad. He had left Floravista shortly after his run-in with Pearlie at the card game in the Oasis Saloon. He had lost so much money in the card game that he barely had enough money to get by, and wouldn’t have any if he hadn’t stolen twelve dollars from a stage way station.
That was three days and fifty miles ago, and he didn’t figure he would ever see Pearlie again. But when he looked up as two men came in, there he was—Pearlie, and another cowboy who was even younger.
Because Creedlove was sitting alone, at a table in the back of the saloon, he was blocked from Pearlie’s direct view by the cast-iron stove, which, though cold now, still smelled of its heavy winter use.
Creedlove watched as Pearlie said a few words to the bartender; then Pearlie and his friend took their beers to a nearby table.
Creedlove got up from the table, pulled his gun from his holster, then, holding it down by his side so it wouldn’t be obvious that he had already drawn his weapon, stepped around the stove and started across the floor.
Pearlie was just pulling the chair out from the table when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Creedlove moving toward him. Pearlie wondered, briefly, what Creedlove was doing this far north of Floravista.
“Draw your gun, you son of a bitch! I aim to shoot you dead!” Creedlove shouted, raising his own pistol at the same time he was challenging Pearlie.
“Pearlie, he already has his gun out!” Cal shouted.
Pearlie didn’t need Cal’s warning because even as Creedlove was bringing his pistol to bear, Pearlie drew his own pistol and suddenly the room was shattered with the roar of two pistols exploding.
The other patrons in the saloon yelled and dived or scrambled for cover. White gun smoke billowed out from both guns, coalescing in a cloud that filled the center of the room. For a moment, the cloud obscured everything.
As the cloud began to roll away, Creedlove stared through the drifting white smoke, glaring at Pearlie.
Creedlove smiled and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, there was incoherent gagging rattle way back in his throat. His eyes glazed over, and he pitched forward, his gun clattering to the floor.
That threat over, Pearlie looked around the saloon, checking to see if there was anyone else laying for him. Pearlie’s pistol was cocked and he was ready to fire a second time, if a second shot was needed. He saw that Cal had drawn his own pistol and was also looking around the room for any potential danger.
Satisfied that there was no further danger, Pearlie holstered his pistol. Cal holstered his as well, and seeing them put their pistols back in the holsters, the other patrons began, slowly, to reappear from under tables, behind the bar and stove, and even from under the staircase.
A lawman came running in then, but seeing that it was all over, he put his gun away. He looked toward the body on the floor.
“Anybody know this man?” the lawman asked.
“His name is Creedlove,” Pearlie said.
“Did you shoot him?”
“I did.”
“It was a fair fight, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “The fella on the floor drew first.”
“That’s right, Sheriff,” one of the others said. “Fact is, this Creedlove fella not only drew first, he already had his gun out before he even challenged this man.”
After that, several men at once began telling the story, each adding embellishments from his own perspective. When they were finished, the lawman came over to Pearlie and Cal.
“You got ’ny idea why he would come after you like that?”
“I won some money off him playing cards the other night,” Pearlie said.
“Were you cheatin’?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t.”
“What’s your name, mister?”
“Smith,” Pearlie said. “John Smith.”
Cal looked at Pearlie in surprise, but said nothing.
“Are you staying in town for the night, Mr. Smith?”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Pearlie said. “My friend, Bill Jones, and I are heading toward California.”
The sheriff realized then that Pearlie hadn’t given his right name, and he sighed and shook his head.
“All right,” he said. “No need for you to give me your right names, if what everyone here says is true. And there’s no need for you to stay in town any longer. Fact is, it might be better all around if you just kept passing through.”
“Soon as we finish our beer, we’ll be on our way,” Pearlie said.
The sheriff looked over at the bartender. “I’ll get someone to come down here and get the body out of here,” he said.
“Thanks, Sheriff,” the bartender said. Looking around the saloon, he saw that several new customers had come in, drawn by the excitement. The bartender smiled.
“No big hurry, though,” he said. “It seems to be good for business.”
Carrying the wanted poster on Smoke Jensen, Marshal Turnball walked down toward the telegraph office.
“Good job catchin’ that murderer and bank robber, Marshal,” one of the townspeople said.
“Thank you,” Turnball replied.
“Too bad he didn’t have any of the money with him.”
“Yes, it is. But at least we have him,” Turnball said.
When Turnball stepped into the telegraph office, a bell on the door announced his entrance. Rodney Wheat, wearing a green visor and red suspenders, was sitting behind the counter reading a penny-dreadful novel. Wheat looked up as the marshal entered.
“I hear you caught one of the bank robbers,” Wheat said.
“Yes,” Turnball answered. He showed Wheat the poster. “It was this fella.”
Wheat looked at the poster.
PROCLAMATION
$5,000.00
REWARD
For the Apprehension
DEAD OR ALIVE
Of the Murderer
KIRBY “SMOKE” JENSEN.
This Notice Takes the Place
Of All Previous
REWARD NOTICES.
Contact: Sheriff, Hinsdale County, Colorado
IMMEDIATELY.
“I want you to send a telegram to the sheriff out in Hinsdale County, telling him that we have this fella in custody,” Turnball said.
Wheat shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said.
“What do you mean you can’t do that? Why can’t you do it?”
“The telegraph line is down. It’s been down for a couple of days now.”
“Well, when do you think you’ll get it back?”
Wheat shook his head. There’s no way of telling. Last time it took two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
Wheat nodded. “Two weeks,” he said. “And it might even take longer this time. If the line is out up in the higher elevations, there will still be so much snow that the line crew might not be able to get to it.”
Turnball stroked his jaw as he contemplated the situation. Then he nodded. “All right. I’ll send a letter. What’s the county seat of Hinsdale County?”
“Lake City,” Wheat answered. “But I don’t know if you are going to have any more luck with the letter than you are with sending a telegram. That’s on the other side of the mountains, and I’m sure none of the high passes are open yet.”
“Maybe not,” Turnball replied. “But I’m going to try.”
Smoke was lying on the bunk in his cell with his hands laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had to admit that the cell was solidly built. The bars didn’t go all the way to the ceiling, but came up only about six feet. Between the top of the bars and the ceiling itself was a two-foot wall of solid brick. At the back of the wall there were three small windows, enough to let in light and air, but not one of the three large enough for a man to pass through, even if there were no bars.
When he heard the marshal come back into the office, he sat up.
“Marshal?” he called.
“What do you want, Jensen?” Turnball answered.
“Did you send a telegram to Sheriff Carson, back in Big Rock?”
“No.”
“What about the Sheriff of Hinsdale County? Did you contact him about whether or not the poster was current?”
“I told you, it doesn’t matter whether or not the poster is current,” Turnball said. “I’m only interested in the man you killed here, and the bank that you robbed here.”
“I didn’t do it,” Smoke said. “I told you, contact Sheriff Carson. He’ll vouch for me.”
“I’ll send him a letter,” Turnball said.
“A letter?”
“The telegraph wire is down,” Turnball explained. “Fact is, if Judge Craig wasn’t scheduled to come into town tomorrow, we wouldn’t even be able to send for him. At least, we can have us a fair trial.”
“Hold on there, Marshal,” Smoke said. “You aren’t planning on holding a trial before you can check up on my story, are you?”
“We’re holding your trial tomorrow,” Turnball said. “We don’t get that many visits from a judge, and I don’t intend to waste this one.”
“What about a lawyer?” Smoke asked. “Do I get a lawyer?”
“We got two lawyers in town,” Turnball said. “If it’s the way they normally do it, they’ll flip a coin to see who prosecutes and who defends. It seems to work out all right.”
Chapter Ten
There was no courthouse in the town of Etna, so the trial was held in the school. At the top of the blackboard in the front of the room, the alphabet was displayed in both cursive and block letters, in capital and lowercase. On the side panel of the blackboard were the work assignments for each of the six grades that attended the single-room schoolhouse. A stove sat in a sandbox in the corner of the room, and artwork of the children was pinned on the wall.
Two tables had been placed in the front of the classroom. One table had two chairs, and that was for Smoke and his lawyer. The other table was the prosecutor’s table, and it had only one chair. The jury occupied the two first rows of desks in the classroom, while the citizens of the town squeezed into the remaining desks. Others were standing along the two side walls and the back wall. The judge’s bench was the schoolteacher’s desk, while Miss Garvey, the schoolteacher, was pressed into service as the court reporter.
Smoke felt a sense of melancholy as he looked around the schoolroom. His Sally had been teaching at a school exactly like this one when he met her. It was a cruel irony that his fate was about to be decided in a place like this.
“All rise!” Marshal Turnball shouted. In his capacity as city marshal, Turnball was also acting as the bailiff.
At Turnball’s call, everyone seated in the classroom cum courtroom stood to await the arrival of the judge.
Judge Arlie Craig was a short, fat man who filled out his black robes. He was bald, except for a tuft of white over each ear. He took his seat at the bench, then looked out over the courtroom.
“The court may be seated,” he said.
As the people sat, Judge Craig removed his glasses and cleaned them thoroughly. Then he put them back on, hooking them very carefully over one ear at a time. During this process the courtroom was very quiet, almost as if mesmerized by it. The only sound came from outside the courtroom, and that from a barking dog.
“Bailiff, would you call the case, please?” Judge Craig said.
“Your Honor, there comes before this honorable court one Kirby Jensen,” Turnball said. “Mr. Jensen is charged with the murder of Robert J. Clark, said murder committed during the act of robbery of the Bank of Etna.”
“Was this charge issued by a grand jury?”
“It was, Your Honor. The grand jury met this morning.”
“Thank you,” Judge Craig said. “And is the accused now represented by counsel?”
“He is, Your Honor,” the lawyer sitting beside Smoke said. “I am Asa Jackson, duly accredited by the bar of the State of Colorado to practice law.”
The judge looked over at Smoke.
“Is the defendant satisfied with counsel?”
“I am not, Your Honor,” Smoke said.
His response surprised the judge and startled many who were in the court. Several reacted audibly, and one man shouted, “At least you have a lawyer! That’s more than you gave Rob Clark!”
Others shouted out as well, and Judge Craig had to bang his gavel several times to restore order.
“Mr. Jensen, what complaint do you have against Mr. Jackson?”
“Your Honor, I have no complaint against Mr. Jackson personally. But I would prefer to select my own lawyer.”
“There are only two lawyers in town,” Judge Craig replied. “Would you rather have the prosecutor act as your defense counsel?”
“No, Your Honor. I ask for a delay so that I may get a lawyer from my own hometown of Big Rock.”
“Mr. Hagen, you are the prosecutor,” Judge Craig said. “How say you to this request?”
“Your Honor, the crime is still fresh upon the minds of all the witnesses. I fear that any delay may cloud their memories, perhaps even to the detriment of the defendant. All that is required by the law is th
at he be provided with counsel, and we have done so. I move that his request for a delay be denied.”
Judge Craig nodded, then looked back at Smoke. “Due to my own busy schedule, it would be several weeks before I could return to Etna. And, as Mr. Hagen has pointed out, the closer the trial is held to the event, the sharper the memories of the witnesses who are called. Therefore, your request for a delay in the trial is denied. Has there been voir dire of the jury?”
“There has, Your Honor, and both defense and prosecution have accepted the jury as it is now constituted,” Hagen said.
“Very good,” Judge Craig replied. “Now, Mr. Jensen, how do you plead to the charge against you?”
“Not guilty,” Smoke said.
“Very well,” Judge Craig said. He cleared his throat. “The defendant represented and the jury accepted, I declare this case in session. Mr. Hagen, make your case.”
Lester Hagen was a tall, gangly-looking man with a wild shock of hair and prominent ears. Standing, he turned to face the jury, which was seated just behind him.
“It won’t take me long to do this,” he said, speaking so quietly that those in the back had to strain to hear. “Practically everyone in this town was a witness to the robbery of the Bank of Etna on the sixth day of this very month. I could call any of them, and all would give compelling and damning testimony. Ten thousand dollars was taken, money that belonged to the fair people of this town.”
Turning back to the table, he picked up the red and black plaid shirt Smoke had been wearing when he was arrested.
“Look at this shirt,” he said. “It is not a shirt one can easily forget. And if you see this shirt on a man who is in the act of killing another, then the shirt becomes even more vividly burned into your memory. This shirt alone is enough to convict the defendant. No matter what he or his lawyer may say to obfuscate the issue, the facts are indisputable. A man wearing this very shirt killed Rob Clark. This man,” he said, with a dramatic pointing of his finger toward Smoke, “was captured wearing this very shirt. I think that when this trial is finished, you will have no difficulty in finding Mr. Kirby Jensen guilty as charged.”
Betrayal of the Mountain Man Page 8
