Shane and Jonah 6

by Cole Shelton

  The rig was swallowed up by the night, and Sampson continued down the dusty street. Music from the Ace of Diamonds came to him, but Judd Sampson turned his face towards the opposite side of the street—to where a lone lamp burned in the law office.

  Sampson pulled his stubborn mount to a halt and sat there gazing at the front door. Sheriff Harper would be inside, and he was the right man to tell. He had the kind of information which would answer a lot of questions for the lawman, and maybe help a man who was facing the swing of the hanging rope. Now Judd Sampson knew that he ought to be bounding to that door and blurting out what he had stored up in his mind, yet something held him back.

  The fear of the consequences if he told Sheriff Harper exactly what he’d seen from his vantage point over Moose Valley. And yet, if he remained silent, an innocent man would die. Judd rubbed a gnarled hand over his whiskers and his watery eyes stared at the door.

  Very slowly, the prospector slithered down from his mule. He faltered by the tie-rail, and summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, he took one step onto the boardwalk.

  Right then the batwings of the Ace of Diamonds were flung wide and three men strode outside into the night. One of them had his arm in a makeshift sling, and Sampson recognized him as Brent Gowrie from the Diamond C.

  “Well now!” Redd Yuldara snickered. “Lookit who’s over the street. Ole Whiskers himself!”

  “What are you doing here, Ole Whiskers?” Clegg guffawed as he unlooped the reins of his horse from the tie-rail. “Going to confess your sins to Sheriff Harper?”

  “Yeah,” Gowrie joined in the ribbing. “Gonna confess rustling those beeves and robbing those traps? We know you, Sampson! You call any steer you can lay your hands on a clean skin!”

  “I haven’t stole any of your steers. Mr. Gowrie,” Judd Sampson said respectfully.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” the ramrod grinned. “Mr. Gowrie.”

  “Say Ole Whiskers—what are you really doing around Harper’s office?” Clegg laughed as he swung into his saddle.

  “I—uh—wasn’t heading there,” the wizened prospector lied falteringly. “I was just gonna walk past on my way to buy some coffee.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Yuldara mocked him. “But then, I seem to recall what happened last time you went to the saloon.”

  Sampson remembered, too. They had decided to ‘have fun’ with him that evening, forcing him to drink glass after glass of whisky until he made a spectacle of himself in front of the other patrons.

  The Diamond C riders laughed raucously at him as they sat saddle and watched him. Judd Sampson kept walking. He didn’t knock on Sheriff Harper’s door, and he wouldn’t be doing it later on, either. This brief encounter with the Diamond C men had shattered all the bravado he could muster. It brought back one of the most unpleasant memories of his long life and it set him thinking about the possible consequences of telling Harper the truth. The word would soon get out that it was Judd Sampson who’d made the statement, and in any case, he would be called to testify in court. No, Judd Sampson would not risk the consequences!

  Two minutes later, seated hunched over his coffee, Sampson glanced out of the window across the street. The lights of the Ace of Diamonds splashed out over the dust, and he could hear the sounds of drinking and music. He couldn’t tell Harper, but he had to unburden himself to someone! He couldn’t sleep, keeping the truth to himself. Somehow he had to unload some of his guilty silence. He was perspiring as he drank his coffee.

  Some folks could go and visit the preacher, but Judd never attended church. But then he thought of someone, just one person in the whole of Destiny Creek who’d listen to him talk and thus in some way share his fears and the guilt he felt. Yes, just one person. Swiftly he slurped down his hot coffee, left a dime on the table and walked out into the night.

  Five – Sentence of Death

  “This here court is now in session,” Judge Kirk Sayers pronounced, looking down at the packed rows of townsfolk. “Sheriff, will you read the charge?”

  Seated next to Luke, Shane Preston watched the lawman, dressed in his Sunday suit and string tie for the occasion, step forward and clear his throat.

  “Will the defendant please stand,” Judge Sayers prompted. Luke shuffled his feet. He could feed the tension in the courtroom, and knew without glancing around that every gaze was fixed on him.

  “The defendant, Luke Wainwright, is charged with the willful murder of Jacob King,” Harper read out.

  “How do you plead, Wainwright?” Sayers peered at him through his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Guilty or not guilty.”

  “I didn’t kill Mr. King!” Wainwright spat out.

  “In other words,” Sayers said pompously, “you plead ‘not guilty’.”

  “Your Honor,” Shane broke in at this point. “I’m acting on behalf of Luke Wainwright.”

  The judge’s fleshy face wore a deep frown at Shane’s announcement but it was a middle-aged man in an immaculate broadcloth suit who stepped up to reassure the judge that all was in order.

  “The defendant is entitled to have anyone he wishes to defend him,” he said loudly and confidently.

  Shane surveyed the county prosecutor as the lawyer scrutinized the papers in his hand. Hiram F. Longbottom had arrived at the courthouse soon after sunup, and he’d spent most of the time interviewing witnesses who’d come at Harper’s invitation to volunteer information pertaining to the case. The out-of-town lawyer could, in other circumstances, almost pass for a dandy. He wore a white silken shirt, and his hair was swept back like a senator’s.

  “Yes, of course,” Judge Sayers murmured. “Defendant—you may be seated.”

  Hiram F. Longbottom marched out in front of the jury to open the case for the prosecution, and his first act was to look the courtroom over. He smiled softly. He liked a big audience. Then he turned his attention to the jurors, hastily summoned from their stores, homes and ranches to become the twelve good men and true. He smiled at them.

  “Gentlemen,” Hiram F. Longbottom addressed them in his carefully cultivated voice, “this is a particularly heinous crime.”

  Shane could see by the puzzled expressions on more than one juryman’s face that the word emphasized by Longbottom wasn’t exactly part of their vocabulary, but nevertheless, it had the effect of impressing them.

  “Jacob King was a well known and well loved citizen of this community. His money either built or assisted in building not only businesses, but also the school, the chapel, the library, and indeed, this very courthouse we’re sitting in ...”

  The prosecutor droned on, praising King’s past achievements and pointing out how tragic a loss Destiny Creek had suffered.

  “... and now,” Longbottom lowered his voice for effect, “this wonderful man, this Godly citizen, is dead—murdered, shot in the back by a cowardly assassin!”

  “Objection!” Shane erupted.

  The judge peered at him. “Yes, Mr.—ah—Preston?”

  “The kind of language that’s being used by the prosecutor is aimed at stirring up the jury!”

  “Ah, Mr. Preston,” Hiram F. Longbottom smiled condescendingly. “What you’re trying to say is you’d like fact, not emotive word, eh?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then facts you shall have, Mr. Preston,” Longbottom said, strutting up and down like a peacock. “I call Brenton John Gowrie to the stand.”

  Gowrie wasn’t dressed up for the occasion, but the stubble had been shaved from his face and his clothes looked pressed. He still wore his arm in a sling.

  Sheriff Harper held up the Bible for him.

  “Place your right hand on the Good Book, Brent.” The sheriff waited while Gowrie complied. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—so help you God?”

  “Er—yeah, I swear,” Gowrie said and scowled across at Shane.

  “Mr. Gowrie,” Hiram F. Longbottom addressed his witness, “I want you to tell the jury exactly what happ
ened in Moose Valley last Tuesday morning.”

  “Well,” sniffed Gowrie, “me and the boys—”

  “The boys?” Longbottom queried.

  “Clegg and Yuldara,” the ramrod elaborated. “Me and the boys were riding down Moose Valley near the trail after a few head of strays. Everything was peaceful, when we heard shooting. We looked down trail, wondering what in hell was going on, and this bastard, uh—excuse me—we saw Wainwright standing plumb over a body with a gun in his hand.”

  “You actually saw Wainwright shoot Mr. King?” the county prosecutor demanded.

  “Well, Mr. Longbottom, sir, Wainwright was standing over the body, his gun aimed downwards, and we heard shooting.” Gowrie smirked. “Now, in my book that’s as good as seeing the damn bullets belch out of the muzzle!”

  Longbottom grinned good naturedly at the subsequent merriment in court. He certainly didn’t mind a joke at his expense as long as it helped his cause.

  “Shane!” Luke whispered desperately. “Gowrie’s twisted things! The shooting took place before I arrived on the scene, and long before they did too! Gowrie’s making it sound like I was standing by the body when the gunfire blasted out—he’s deliberately twisting things to make the picture look worse than it really was.”

  “Order!” Sayers grated as he saw the prisoner make his rapid aside to Shane. “You can continue, Gowrie.”

  “We decided to take Wainwright to the sheriff, and I took charge of the murder gun,” Gowrie concluded.

  “Your witness. Mr. Preston,” the country prosecutor nodded to Shane.

  Shane stood up awkwardly, feeling out of place. This was unfamiliar ground to him, and frankly, he’d rather have been facing a couple of killers in a saloon showdown than this slippery college educated lawyer.

  Nevertheless, Luke’s life was at stake, and out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Kathleen’s white face. She was depending on him.

  “You say you were huntin’ cattle in Moose Valley?” Shane Preston demanded.

  “That’s right,” Gowrie said nonchalantly.

  “Moose Valley is a long way from the Diamond C,” Shane remarked dryly.

  “So what?” Gowrie shrugged. “Our beeves take long walks.”

  A howl of amusement went up from the body of the courthouse and Judge Sayers had to thump the bench with his gavel to restore a semblance of order.

  Shane examined a copy of Gowrie’s statement which he’d requested from Harper.

  “Says here, Gowrie,” Shane said, “that you heard shooting, then came upon the body of Jacob King with Luke Wainwright standing there. The way you spoke a while ago, it sounded like the shooting was taking place while you watched Luke standing over the body. Now which is right—your original written statement or what you told the court a minute ago?”

  Gowrie looked bewildered, then he made up his mind. “What I just said.”

  A murmur floated through the court.

  “So you’ve changed your testimony?” Shane accused.

  “Huh?”

  “The way your written statement reads is you heard gunfire, rode down and saw Luke standing there with a gun in his hand. You then assumed he was the killer.”

  “Ah,” Gowrie brushed the point aside, “everyone knows I ain’t much of a hand at writing things. What I meant to write was what I said here in court!”

  “Gowrie,” Shane grated, “I reckon that you’re deliberately trying to mislead this court. Your written statement plainly intimates that you assumed Luke was the killer—maybe a natural assumption for which no one will blame you—but today you’re twisting the facts around so the shooting and Luke’s standing over the body took place at the same time ...”

  For fully ten minutes, Shane subjected the Diamond C ramrod to a close examination, centered around the discrepancies between his written statement and what he’d told the court. He was trying to get Gowrie to admit that his original statement was correct, and maybe Luke was a victim of circumstances, but as he persisted, the ramrod began to lose his temper.

  “Listen—all of you!” Brent Gowrie blazed. “Wainwright murdered Jacob King! No matter what I wrote down, Wain—”

  “Order!” barked the judge.

  “Gowrie!” Shane changed his tactics. “Why did you try to whip up a lynch-mob yesterday?”

  “Your Honor!” Hiram F. Longbottom considered he’d been pretty patient these last few minutes. “It’s patently obvious that Mr. Preston isn’t acquainted with correct courtroom procedure. Mr. Gowrie isn’t on trial! I question the line that Mr. Preston’s taking.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Judge Sayers nodded. “Mr. Preston, please confine yourself to questions directly affecting the murder. What Mr. Gowrie is alleged to have done later on, however unsavory, is really no business of this court.”

  Shane turned his back on the ramrod and sat down.

  Hiram F. Longbottom called the sheriff to give evidence. The main part of his examination centered around Luke’s gun which was resting on the judge’s bench top.

  “You broke the gun in the defendant’s presence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “Three bullets were in the loading chambers.” He added, “It’s a six-shooter.”

  The crowd laughed again.

  “And how many bullets were in Jacob King’s back?”

  “Three.”

  Hiram F. Longbottom walked over to the jury box. “Mr. Preston has been making a lot of noise over whether the shooting took place before or after Mr. Gowrie spotted the defendant. Personally, I don’t think it matters. In fact, if our lay-lawyer here insists, I’d even be prepared to accept that no one saw the actual shooting. However, consider what your esteemed sheriff has just told you. There were three bullets missing from Wainwright’s gun—and there were three bullets in Mr. King’s back. Reckon that should be good enough for all of you.”

  And, looking at the jury, Shane knew that Harper’s evidence had been most telling. Maybe he’d managed to plant a small seed of doubt in their minds when Gowrie had changed his testimony slightly, but that seed had been most effectively trampled on.

  “Sheriff,” Shane said when it was his turn to cross-examine, “there’s just one question. Do you agree that it would have been possible for Gowrie to empty out those three bullets on the trail back?”

  “Why in hell’s name should he want to do that?” the lawman snarled.

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  Harper hesitated. “Well—er—I suppose it was possible. I mean, he carried the gun, but—hell, Preston—why?”

  “That’s all, Harper.”

  Hiram F. Longbottom looked at the body of the courtroom.

  “I call Mrs. Celia King to the stand.”

  A deep hush fell over the room as King’s widow stood up from the second row. Even dressed in her mourning clothes, she was a strikingly beautiful woman, and as she walked forward, the cape fell back from her hair. Raven ringlets tumbled down to her shoulders. She was tall and stately, and even her somber dress failed to conceal the lush curves of her full figure.

  “Who’s that she was sitting next to?” Shane asked Luke.

  “Mr. Coventry,” Luke whispered back. “Owns the neighboring ranch. He and King were the best of friends.”

  Murmurs of sympathy flowed through the audience as Celia took the stand.

  “Mrs. King,” Longbottom said with professional gentleness, “we all sympathize with you in your tragic loss, and we understand what an ordeal this must be for you. However, there are just a couple of questions I must ask you, especially since you so kindly volunteered the information this morning—”

  “Please, Mr. Prosecutor.” Celia lowered her eyes. “Must I say in public what—what I told you earlier on?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs. King. You do want your husband’s murderer to be brought to justice, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Luke nudged his counsel. “What in heck’s she doing
here on the stand?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Shane Preston murmured grimly.

  “Mrs. King,” Hiram F. Longbottom said, “do you know the defendant?”

  “Unfortunately—yes,” she almost whispered her reply.

  “Speak up, please, Mrs. King,” the judge prompted her.

  “Yes,” she said, louder.

  “When did you last see him, Mrs. King?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  Shane watched his client gape in surprise.

  “What!” Luke croaked.

  “In what circumstances?” the prosecutor asked.

  Celia King hesitated. “He came out to the house to buy pelts. I understand he trades in them. I—I was there alone because Jacob, my husband, and the ranch hands were out on the range.”

  “That’s a lie!” Luke Wainwright yelled, his face red. “A damn lie! I’ve never been out to the Rolling Wheel in my life!”

  “Wainwright,” Sayers admonished him. “Control yourself.”

  “Continue, Mrs. King,” the prosecutor said.

  “I didn’t want to let him inside, but—well, he insisted.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t have any business dealings with him, Mr. Longbottom, but he—he tried something.”

  “He made a pass at you?” Longbottom put the words into her mouth.

  Luke gasped frantically beside Shane Preston, but the gunfighter restrained him with an urgent hand on his arm.

  “He mauled me and tried to kiss me!”

  “And you gave him no encouragement?”

  “Mr. Longbottom,” she whispered indignantly, “I loved my husband! Oh, God, he was my very life! You must believe me—Jacob was the only man who ever laid hands on me!”

  “Of course I believe you,” Longbottom reassured her soothingly. “Now, Mrs. King, I want you to tell us what happened after Wainwright made this pass at you.”

  “I told him to get out of my home,” she said abruptly. “And just then, Jacob rode back and I told him what had happened. Jacob was a very mild-mannered man, as everyone knows, but he was very angry. He said that if Wainwright ever returned to the Rolling Wheel, he’d whip him within an inch of his life.”