Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  “Does your granddaughter call all the shots around here, now?” Laban shot back.

  “Simmer down, Laban,” Caleb warned. “I want to keep this man—Gentry, isn’t it?—on the payroll. We’ll keep an eye on him. He can’t be working alone—” Then he added with a glance toward Carolyn, “If he’s involved at all. If he is in on this, he can lead us to the rest of the gang, possibly to Bonnell.”

  “So, Boss,” said Sean, “does that mean you don’t want us to ride over to Bonnell’s place and put the fear of God into them? I told the boys to be ready.”

  “This isn’t the old days, Toliver.” Caleb seemed disappointed at that fact. “We can’t go shooting up a man’s place, or hauling him out to be lynched anymore on pure hearsay. Bonnell is rallying many of the small ranchers around him. To them, he’s a hero, probably a kind of Robin Hood.”

  “Call in their loans,” Laban said. “You hold most of the notes. Put them out of business.”

  Caleb shook his head. “Don’t be stupid, Laban! I don’t want to turn this county into a battlefield, and that’s just what could happen—a full-fledged range war. We’ve got to catch the rustlers red-handed. Then the other ranchers will be forced to desert Bonnell because they’re not going to want to risk supporting a proven rustler. I want to catch the thieves and string them up, but not at the cost of the peace of this entire region.”

  “At what cost then?” Laban asked. “In the last six months we’ve already lost five hundred head of cattle. I say it’s time Bonnell was stopped before he puts us out of business!”

  “Keep that hot head of yours in check. We’ll get the culprits my way, you hear?” Caleb turned to Sean. “You keep a loose rein on Gentry; give him enough slack to hang himself with, understand?”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  “Aren’t we about ready to move that herd we have grazing south of here up to the pasture in Buck’s canyon?” asked Caleb.

  “Well, Boss, Laban and I discussed that, and we weren’t too impressed with the grass up there this season. We thought Duff’s Valley east of there’d be better.”

  “All right, put Gentry on that drive. Make sure he gets plenty of time alone with the herd. Shorthand them if you have to. Let’s see what happens.”

  After lunch, Sean contrived to get a moment alone with Carolyn when Caleb and Laban left the dining room ahead of them. Though he eyed her with his usual lust, there was something else in his eyes she couldn’t quite identify—seriousness, perhaps—deadly seriousness. And it was accompanied by a hard edge to his voice.

  “What’s this sudden interest you’ve got in Matt Gentry?” he asked.

  “I said before, he just doesn’t seem like the dishonest type—”

  “He admitted to quite a bit of dishonesty in his past.”

  “Can’t a man change?”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t answer my first question—why it should matter to you.”

  “I just like the guy and I don’t want to see him get into trouble, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why, Sean, I think you’re jealous!”

  “Maybe I am. I just don’t like anyone messing in my territory.”

  Being thought of as “territory” irked Carolyn, but she was nonetheless flattered by the notion that a man like Sean cared so much about her that he was actually jealous. Another girl might have played this interesting situation to its fullest extent, but such an idea didn’t even enter into Carolyn’s mind. And even if it had, she simply would not have known what to do about it, for she had never learned such feminine wiles.

  “Sean, there’s absolutely nothing like that between me and Matt—I’m not even sure if that’s what there is between you and me.”

  “I thought we rode over this trail before.”

  “I guess nothing’s changed.”

  He gave her cheek a pat. “You are something else, Carolyn. I might even say I’ve never met anyone quite like you before.”

  She couldn’t tell if he meant it as a compliment or not. And Sean didn’t give her a chance to ask, for immediately after speaking he turned on his heel and strode from the dining room. And, as usual, Carolyn was left with a slightly hanging jaw, and a confused mind.

  55

  Court convened Monday, and Doc Barrows was recalled to the stand and later cross-examined carefully by Jonathan as to the location of Leonard Stoner’s wound. This went on for some time until the prosecution objected that the cross-examination was accomplishing nothing. Jonathan pointed out that he wished to establish before the jury that the assumption that Leonard had been shot in the back was just that—an assumption.

  “It was considered a fact in the previous trial,” argued the prosecutor.

  “That was a mistrial,” emphasized Jonathan. “The purpose of this trial is to right the wrongs committed then. There was never any proof on that point except the word of the good doctor here, and the testimony of the most hostile witness, Caleb Stoner. We cannot accept the location of the wound as fact without incontrovertible proof.”

  “There is the testimony of Sheriff Pollard,” said Fuller.

  “Yes, the sheriff…whose job depended on the good graces of Caleb Stoner.”

  “Now, wait a minute!” shouted Pollard from his seat among the spectators. “You calling me a liar?”

  The judge pounded his gavel on the table. “We’ll have order in this court,” he said. “I will not have outbursts from the spectators.”

  Jonathan went on calmly, ignoring Pollard. “We cannot have a repetition of the travesty perpetrated nineteen years ago. The foundation of this trial must be based on facts, not merely the testimony of witnesses whose viewpoint must be questioned because of their close association to the principals of this case.”

  “Do you have such facts?” asked the judge.

  “I must remind the court that the burden of proof rests on the prosecution,” answered Jonathan with exaggerated respect.

  “Then let us get on with our case,” the prosecutor said snidely.

  Without new evidence, it was the best Jonathan could do at that point to cast doubt on so-called facts from the first trial.

  On Tuesday, the prosecution completed the presentation of its case with two surprises. The prosecutor presented its final witness, saying smugly, “She is someone who is in no way closely associated with the principals of the case.”

  It was Eufemia Mendez.

  “Señora Mendez,” asked Fuller, “can you tell the court what you do in Stoner’s Crossing and what you were doing there nineteen years ago?”

  “I own La Rosa Cantina. Nineteen years ago I was an employee of the cantina.”

  “An employee…would that be the same as a saloon girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know the deceased, Leonard Stoner?”

  “He was a customer at the cantina.”

  “A frequent customer?”

  “No more than most of the men in town. Most of our customers are the Mexican residents, but the gringos come, too, for a change of pace.”

  “So, you had merely a business relationship with him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He never spoke of personal things to you?”

  “Occasionally he did, as did all the men who came. You know, sometimes strong drink loosens a man’s tongue. Señor Stoner was no different.”

  “Do you remember any of those personal conversations with Mr. Stoner?”

  “I remember because of all that happened later, and because I was made to testify in the other trial. For the most part he complained about his unhappy marriage. He said he’d never know for sure if her child was his. He was, of course, greatly disturbed by this. I don’t remember all the details of what he said, but I had little doubt that the poor man had been cuckolded.”

  “Thank you, Señora Mendez.”

  Even Carolyn caught the prosecution’s sly technique of dismissing the witness and allowing the final damning word, cuckolded, to be left rin
ging in the jury’s ears.

  And, because of Eufemia’s cool, aloof demeanor, Jonathan could do little to discredit her statement. He decided to take a different tack.

  “Señora Mendez, you stated that you were an employee at the cantina at the time of Leonard Stoner’s death. Who owned the establishment then?”

  “Alvarez Domingo.”

  “He paid you for your services?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what his financial situation was at that time?”

  “I only worked there.”

  “You seem to have intimate knowledge of a mere customer’s marital status, yet you say you had no idea that Mr. Domingo was on the verge of bankruptcy at that time?”

  “Oh yes, now that you mention it, there was talk of that.”

  Jonathan smiled. “Must have slipped your impeccable memory.”

  Eufemia’s color rose momentarily, and the prosecutor uttered a disgruntled groan.

  Jonathan continued. “I have here documented proof of Mr. Domingo’s financial state which I unearthed among some old, buried bank records.” In lieu of anything more substantial, Jonathan and Sam had spent a great deal of time looking into the backgrounds of the witnesses in the previous trial. “As a matter of fact, the cantina was about to revert to the holder of the loan note—one Caleb Stoner. You did not know this, Señora Mendez?”

  “Everyone knows that Caleb Stoner owns or controls everything in and around Stoner’s Crossing.”

  “Who holds the note on the cantina now?”

  She hesitated before answering. “Caleb Stoner.”

  “No further questions,” said Jonathan as he took his seat.

  The final surprise of the day was that the prosecutor rested his case without calling Caleb Stoner. It at least was a surprise to Carolyn. Jonathan said he expected it because Caleb was too close to the events to be objective, and Fuller knew Jonathan would use that to refute Caleb’s testimony. Jonathan was still undecided about whether he’d call Caleb as a witness. It was always tricky for the defense to use a hostile witness.

  Although it was only Tuesday, the judge called a recess until the following week because he needed to attend other cases on his circuit.

  When Sam suggested protesting the delay, Jonathan reminded them that a delay was an advantage for them.

  “This is nothing unusual,” Jonathan said, “especially when working with a circuit judge. Even in the city, our courts are faced with a multitude of delays. We will just have to be patient and remember the saying, ‘Justice, even if slow, is sure.’”

  “I reckon things like this teach patience,” Sam said, “and I’m needing to learn it more than anyone.”

  Carolyn tried to keep that in mind as she kissed her mother goodbye and watched the sheriff escort her away. A delay might help the case, but it couldn’t be doing much for her poor mother, who must spend night after night in a jail cell. And patience was simply not one of Carolyn’s virtues.

  Part 12

  Mysterious Arrival

  56

  Carolyn knew she shouldn’t allow herself to get sidetracked from her problems or her mother’s. Matt Gentry could not only take care of himself, but he’d probably be downright resentful of aid from a girl. Nevertheless, when she returned from Leander that day and heard that cattle were being moved to Duff’s Valley, she had a strong urge to join the drive. And, since she was feeling absolutely helpless where her mother was concerned, she saw no reason not to.

  Sam and Mr. Barnum had contacted everyone in town who had been even remotely connected with the murder, and Carolyn was sure they were far more competent than she in such work. She had tried and tried to get Caleb to talk to them, but he had refused. This recess would drive her crazy with helplessness and boredom if she didn’t find something to distract her.

  So the next morning Carolyn decided to ride out to the cattle drive. Caleb, of course, forbade her to do so, and even threatened to lock her in her room. But Carolyn proved her Stoner blood beyond all doubt when she stubbornly stood up to him.

  “First, you talk about giving the ranch to me, Grandfather; then you act outraged because I want to be a rancher. I’m the closest thing you’re gonna have to a grandson, so you better learn to appreciate me, and the fact that if I were ever to have this ranch, I’d take doggone good care of it.”

  That argument left Caleb speechless. He shook his head, threw up his hands, and made no more protests; however, he did insist on accompanying her as a chaperon.

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me your mother allowed you to spend the night alone on the trail with cowhands!” He spoke as if this were nearly as heinous a crime as the one for which Deborah now sat in prison.

  “No, I reckon not,” admitted Carolyn. “I guess there was always someone like her or Griff along. But, Grandfather, do you think you’re up to it? I mean, after being ill?”

  “I am not yet a doddering old man, young lady.”

  The men, two others besides Gentry, were uncomfortable at having the boss and his granddaughter join them on the drive. It was absolutely unprecedented for them to have a female along on such an event, but Carolyn proved her usefulness by taking charge of the small remuda of twenty horses, thus freeing the men to keep better control of the herd.

  The herd had been grazing near the dried-up riverbed, the very place Sam had discovered when trying to gain entrance to the ranch several weeks ago. Not only was the grass getting low, but the sole water source, a small natural pond, was nearly dried out. That last rainstorm had been the only rain in months, and it had not lasted long enough to replenish the pond. Duff’s Valley, some thirty miles to the northwest, had not been used all season and still had a good water supply and plenty of grass. It was a three-day drive to move the cattle, and Caleb and Carolyn joined the herd on the second day out.

  That night the herd was bedded down on a small rise a couple hundred yards from camp. The guard was divided into three three-hour shifts. They usually had more hands available, but for a small herd of five hundred head and only thirty miles to cover, it was manageable. Carolyn volunteered to ride “cocktail,” that is, to guard the herd while the men ate dinner before the first night-shift began at around eight in the evening.

  The men didn’t know how to respond to this, but they conceded when Caleb rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t try to argue with her, boys; she’s got too much mule in her.”

  “Too much Stoner blood, you mean!” she countered playfully, then rode off to her task.

  The men were glad to have the break; mealtimes had been especially difficult and usually meant that one man would have to have a longer guard shift. There was no chuck wagon on this short drive; each man carried his own hardtack and dried beef. Brewing coffee over the campfire was the only cooking done.

  Just as the sun was dipping out of sight behind the ridge of hills Carolyn had tried to reach the night of the storm, she was relieved by one of the men, so she could have her own dinner. Matt greeted her at camp with a cup of hot coffee, and she hunkered down in front of the fire with the others. It was a warm night, and the fire was hardly necessary for warmth, but it lent a cozy, comfortable feeling to the evening and was allowed to flame at least until it burned itself out.

  The men got to talking in low tones, mostly telling stories, lulling Carolyn along with a sense of delightful security. Caleb even joined into the storytelling with accounts of drives he had accompanied on the Chisholm Trail during the heyday of the big cattle drives in the seventies. He had stories of stampedes and Indian attacks that sent chills through even the seasoned cowboys.

  “I’ll tell you my most terrifying experience,” said Caleb, “and it wasn’t a stampede or an Indian attack—it wasn’t even on a drive. This happened a good many years ago when I was much younger. One winter I was riding up near Buck’s Canyon cutting ice out of the water holes so the stock could drink. One of the worst blizzards I’ve ever been in hit, a
nd I couldn’t beat the storm back to a line cabin. My horse froze out from under me, and I knew if I didn’t do something fast, I’d die, too. So, I took out my long knife, slit that horse’s carcass down the middle, glad to see his innards were still steaming and warm. I scooped what I could out and climbed in and waited out the storm, which, thank God, lasted only another hour or two. I was as snug as a babe in a cradle. No, there’s nothing more terrifying than Texas weather when it decides to turn against you.”

  “That was some mighty fast thinking, Boss,” commented Gentry.

  “That’s what survival is all about,” said Caleb.

  “Yep,” said Gentry. “And, if I plan on surviving this drive I better get some shut-eye. My guard duty’ll be here before I know it.”

  At last Gentry and the other cowhand bedded down at one end of the camp, and Carolyn at the other, with Caleb somewhere in between like a dutiful chaperon. Carolyn dozed off immediately, but in the night she awoke and could not go back to sleep. Rather than lie there feeling the hard ground beneath her, she decided to get up. She saddled her horse while Caleb and the two cowboys slept and rode out to the herd, taking it nice and easy so as not to spook the cows.

  A quarter moon was up, shedding just enough light to illuminate the placid herd, while in the distance the peaceful, mournful strains of a little tune were being whistled.

  Carolyn knew the tune; she’d heard it sung often at the Wind Rider Ranch. The song opined the rugged life of the cowboy, the life she loved.

  Then, as if harmonizing with her thoughts, Matt Gentry’s voice caught up the words of the night-song the cowboys liked to sing to soothe and quiet the herd.

  No one could pity himself better than a cowboy, and perhaps no one had more reason for a little pity. A cowboy’s life was, indeed, one of hard, grueling work. But most cowboys wouldn’t trade it for anything, in spite of the fact that they could gripe and complain with more flair than most working men.

  Carolyn smiled to herself as she thought of all the cowboys she knew—Griff, Longjim, Slim, Matt, Sean, and many others. Even Caleb had proved himself to be a cowboy at heart with his stories this evening at the campfire. And Carolyn couldn’t help but envy them all. No matter how hard she tried, a woman would probably never truly fit into that peculiar and dangerous life.