A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “What about the other man?”

  “When I shot this fella, the other one turned and rode off. I could have shot him, too, but I don’t have the stomach to shoot someone in the back. Anyway, I thought I may as well bring this one to you.”

  Proxmire turned toward the office and called, “Sheriff Ferrell, you want to come out now?”

  The door to the sheriff’s office opened behind Proxmire and another man stepped out. Luke was surprised. He believed it was the man who had gotten away. He was also surprised to see the man was wearing a star on his vest. There had been no star during the ambush.

  “Deputy, I’m not sure, but I think this may have been the other man.” Luke pointed toward the man behind Deputy Sheriff Proxmire.

  “By other man, you mean he was with the man you shot?” Proxmire asked.

  “Yes. He had his face covered with a hood, so I can’t be positive, but he was about this size and was wearing the same kind of clothes. Only he wasn’t packing a star when I saw him last.”

  “You say they were both wearing hoods?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the hood that was on this fella?” Deputy Proxmire asked. “Have you got it with you?”

  “No, I just tossed it aside.”

  “What about you, Sheriff? Is this the man you encountered on the road?”

  “It is, indeed. And you heard him, Sheriff. He just confessed to murdering Deputy Gates.”

  “What?” Luke replied loudly. “What are you talking about? I didn’t murder anyone!”

  “Did you, or did you not, shoot down my deputy?”

  “Who are you?” Luke asked.

  “I’m Sheriff Dewey Ferrell.”

  “Did you shoot his deputy, Luke?” Proxmire asked.

  Luke pointed to the body that was still draped across the horse behind him. “If that man is this man’s deputy, then yes, I shot him. But it was in self-defense. Whether this man is a sheriff or not, he and the man I shot tried to hold me up.”

  “We did no such thing,” Sheriff Ferrell argued. “We were merely trying to stop him, so we could ask him a few questions. That’s when he surprised the two of us by shooting.”

  “Deputy, I don’t know what’s going on here, but what happened is nothing like this man is saying. Both men were wearing hoods over their faces, and they demanded that I give them my money. You don’t mask yourself with a hood if all you want to do is ask a few questions, do you?”

  “You say we were wearing hoods, but you can’t show the hood my deputy was wearing,” Sheriff Ferrell pointed out.

  “If the man you say tried to rob you was masked, how do you know this is the same man?” Proxmire pointed to the sheriff.

  “He just said that he was.”

  “I’m going to have to take your gun and hold you in jail until this is all worked out,” Proxmire said.

  “Deputy, I’m telling you these two men tried to rob me.”

  “Why would they try to rob you, Luke? Do you carry so much money around all the time that someone would want to rob you?”

  “I am now. I’m carrying almost twenty thousand dollars from the sale of my cattle. You can check with Heckemeyer and Sons over in Greenhorn. They will verify that I’m telling the truth.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt but that you sold some cows,” Proxmire said. “But that’s not the question. The question is, did the sheriff and his deputy stop you to ask a few questions as he says or did he and his deputy actually try to rob you?”

  “They tried to rob me.”

  “Look at it this way, Luke. Right now it’s just your word against Sheriff Ferrell’s word, and seeing as he is an officer of the law, his word carries a bit more weight. But perhaps you can convince a jury to believe you.”

  “A jury? Look here, are you actually telling me this is going to court?”

  “It is,” Proxmire said.

  Luke looked at Ferrell. “Will he be in court?”

  “I’ll be there,” Ferrell answered. “I intend to see justice done for the killing of my deputy.”

  “All right,” Luke said. “I won’t argue with you, Proxmire. If you’ll let me put this money in the bank, I’ll come quietly and I’ll stand trial.”

  “Good idea,” Proxmire said.

  Judge Amon Briggs sat back in the chair in his chambers and put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. He was listening to Sheriff Ferrell.

  “Luke can make a lot of trouble for us if we don’t take care of this situation.”

  “What do you mean trouble for us?” Judge Briggs growled. “I didn’t attempt to hold him up.”

  “Did you, or did you not, give Gates and me the information about him going to sell his cows? And were you, or were you not, going to be in for a third of the take? And that isn’t the only deal we’ve been in. You got your share from the coach holdup two months ago, too, as I am sure you well remember.”

  Briggs held his hand out to quiet Ferrell. “All right, all right. There’s no need to say anything else. The walls have ears. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’d better take care of it,” Ferrell pressed. “Otherwise we’ll both be in trouble.”

  Pueblo—December 5

  Luke’s trial was going to be held in the local courthouse with Judge Amon Briggs presiding. He was in his chambers meeting with the prosecutor. “I want him tried for first-degree murder.”

  “Your honor, I don’t think I can make the case for first-degree murder,” Lloyd Gilmore said. “I mean, even if what the sheriff says is true, if all he and his deputy were doing was confronting him for questioning, it still wouldn’t be premeditated murder.”

  “It doesn’t have to be premeditated,” Briggs said. “He was resisting arrest, and that is a felony. Any death that occurs during the commission of a felony is automatically first-degree murder.”

  “According to Sheriff Ferrell’s own testimony, he wasn’t making an arrest, he merely wanted to question him. That’s not resisting arrest. A good lawyer could say that Luke thought he was being held up, and Tom Murchison is a good lawyer.”

  “You’re the prosecutor. It’s your job to make hard cases against good lawyers,” Judge Briggs answered.

  “All right, I’ll try. But I don’t think I’ll be able to convince the jury.”

  As Prosecutor Gilmore and Judge Briggs were discussing the case, Tom Murchison arrived at the jail to meet with Luke Shardeen.

  “You’ve got ten minutes,” Deputy Proxmire said, escorting the attorney to Luke’s cell.

  “You are wrong, Deputy,” Murchison declared as he entered the cell. “Mr. Shardeen is my client, and I will visit with him for as long as it takes.”

  “Yes, well, uh . . .” Proxmire knew he had no response to that, so he shrugged his shoulders and shut the cell door. “Just call out when your visit is finished.” He turned and walked back to the front of the jail.

  Tom Murchison was the lawyer who had handled the estate of Luke’s uncle Frank. Since Luke’s arrival in Pueblo, he and Murchison had become good friends. Compared to Luke, Murchison was relatively short, standing five feet nine inches tall. He wore a red bow tie, and held an unlit cigar at a jaunty angle in his mouth.

  He sat down on the other bunk in Luke’s cell. “Tell me what happened.”

  Luke told of selling the cows in Greenhorn, then seeing the two men waiting in ambush for him on the trail back to Pueblo. He told how they braced him with drawn guns and demanded that he give them his money.

  “I’ll do what I can for you, Luke,” Murchison said. “The truth is, we are playing against a stacked deck. Judge Briggs seems to have an unusual connection to Sheriff Ferrell. But you have never been in trouble since you have been here, you have made a lot of friends, and I have an affidavit showing where you sold your cattle for twenty thousand dollars.

  “So, while our case will be difficult because the deck is stacked against us, theirs will be equally difficult because they have no motive.”

 
CHAPTER SEVEN

  Luke’s trial was held the very next day. The prosecuting attorney presented his opening remarks.

  “Your Honor, and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Murchison will, no doubt, claim that Mr. Shardeen had no motive for killing Deputy Gates. And he will attempt to use that claim as proof that what happened wasn’t murder.

  “But Sheriff Ferrell and Deputy Gates were conducting an investigation, and all they wanted to do was ask a few questions. Mr. Shardeen shot and killed Gates, and Sheriff Ferrell barely escaped with his life. If an officer of the law cannot question a citizen without getting shot, then where does that leave the rest of us?”

  Murchison had been making notes, and when Gilmore sat down, the defense attorney stood and walked over to the rail separating the jury from the rest of the courtroom. He took his unlit cigar from his mouth and held it in his hand, sometimes waving it around as he talked.

  “I am glad that my learned colleague has already conceded that Luke Shardeen had no motive for killing Deputy Gates. Who is Luke Shardeen?

  “He owns Two Crown Ranch, and he is an employer who is well respected by the men who work for him. He has done business in this town for the last three years and, during that time, has earned the respect and admiration of his fellow citizens. Before that he was a seaman, and not an ordinary seaman, but a ship’s officer—one who, when his captain was swept overboard during a typhoon, assumed command of the vessel and brought his ship safely into port, saving twenty-eight lives.

  “Now, let us look more closely at the prosecutor’s contention that all Sheriff Ferrell and Deputy Gates wanted to do was question Mr. Shardeen. If that is true, what were Ferrell and Gates doing asking such questions in Pueblo County in the first place? They are from Bent County. They have no business questioning anyone in Pueblo County. If they had a suspect they needed to question who happened to be out of their jurisdiction, the correct procedure would have been to contact Sheriff John McKenzie and ask that a deputy go with them.

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be done. But they didn’t do that, and Sheriff McKenzie is prepared to testify that he was never contacted. That means Sheriff Ferrell has no corroboration for his story.”

  There was very little cross-examination during the trial. Ferrell reiterated that all he and Gates wanted to do was question Luke, and Luke repeated his claim that the two men attempted to rob him.

  After their testimonies, Murchison and Gilmore made their summation.

  “Prosecution says Ferrell and Gates were two law officers who wanted only to question Mr. Shardeen.” Murchison stood, facing the jury. “But neither of them were wearing a badge, and both were wearing hoods over their faces.”

  He walked back over to the defense table and reached down into a sack, withdrawing a piece of cloth. He spread the cloth out, then held it up before the jury, showing a hood with two eyeholes.

  Several in the gallery gasped.

  “Specifically, one of them was wearing this hood, which I found exactly where Mr. Shardeen said it would be. Wearing a hood like this is hardly the way a couple lawmen would stop a suspect for questioning. I’m going to ask that you do the right thing, and find my client not guilty.”

  Murchison stuck the unlit cigar back in his mouth, then returned to the defense table to sit beside his client.

  “Mr. Prosecutor, your summation?” Judge Briggs asked.

  Gilmore stood, hitched up his trousers, then approached the jury box.

  “What it all boils down to is Luke Shardeen’s word against the word of Sheriff Dewey Ferrell. On the surface, one man’s word against another would balance the scales. But there are two things that tip the scales. One is the fact that Dewey Ferrell isn’t just another citizen; he is a sworn officer of the law. And the other issue is the fact that we have a dead body. Deputy Brad Gates is dead, and we have the defendant’s own admission that he shot and killed him. As to the hood, I’ve no doubt but that Mr. Murchison found it where Mr. Shardeen said it would be. But that proves only that he put the hood there. It is my contention that he did that just to build his defense. Under the circumstances, I feel you can bring no verdict but guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  In the judge’s charge to the jury he suggested strongly that the evidence pointed to first-degree murder, and that it was his belief that they must find in accordance with the evidence.

  “I don’t care what the rest of you say, I don’t intend to find Luke Shardeen guilty of murder in the first degree. Why would he do it?” one of the jurors said when they were sequestered.

  “If Ferrell and Gates were questioning him about a crime he committed somewhere, he might have shot them,” another juror said.

  “What crime? All the prosecution said was that Shardeen was being questioned, and didn’t even say what he was being questioned about. If you ask me, this thing is fishy.”

  “Yeah? Well, he did kill the deputy. That’s a fact that he doesn’t deny. And I can’t see lettin’ him get off scot-free.”

  The jury continued to argue for the better part of an hour, before they came to an agreement and signaled the bailiff they were ready to return to the courtroom.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Briggs asked when they were all seated.

  “We have, Your Honor,” Lynn Thomas, the jury foreman, replied. Thomas owned a leather goods shop.

  “Would you publish your verdict, please?”

  “We find the defendant guilty of manslaughter in the second degree.”

  There was an immediate reaction from the gallery, who, based upon the judge’s public charge of the jury, expected a verdict of murder in the first degree.

  The judge slapped his gavel several times to get order, then looked back at Thomas. “You were not given the option of finding for second degree manslaughter. The charge was for murder.”

  Thomas stared back defiantly. “Your Honor, you can accept the verdict of guilty of manslaughter in the second degree or not guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  Briggs glared at Thomas for a long moment before he pulled his eyes away and spoke. “Will the defendant approach the bench?”

  Luke moved up to stand before the judge.

  “You have been found guilty of manslaughter in the second degree. The maximum penalty for that charge is to be incarcerated for forty-eight months and you are hereby sentenced to the maximum allowed by law. Sheriff, take charge of the prisoner. This court is adjourned.”

  December 16

  Jenny McCoy stood at the window of the private reception room of the Colorado Social Club and looked outside. It was cold and a light dusting of snow was beginning to fall. She watched as a rider passed by, the collar of his coat turned up and his hat pulled down. Behind her a cheery fire snapped and popped in the fireplace.

  Her beauty, bearing, and education had quickly made her a favorite of the more affluent “gentlemen” who visited the club.

  One such visitor was The Honorable Lorenzo Crounse, Governor of Nebraska. He stepped up to the window beside Jenny and put his arm around her. “Doesn’t it make you feel good to be all warm and cozy inside, when it is so cold outside?”

  “It certainly does,” Jenny answered with a smile as she casually turned out of his arm and walked over to the table where sat a carafe of coffee. “And a good hot cup of coffee makes it even better. May I pour you a cup?”

  Governor Crounse chuckled. “Indeed you may, my dear.” He watched her as she poured. “I must say, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.”

  Jenny brought the cup of coffee to the governor and handed it to him with a smile. “My goodness, Governor, if you flatter everyone that way, it’s no wonder you got elected.”

  “Oh, but I mean it, my dear. I mean every word. You are—”

  The door to the private reception room was suddenly thrown open, interrupting the governor’s statement. Four men rushed inside, three had pistols in their hands, and the fourth was carrying a camera.

 
“Here, what is the meaning of this?” the governor asked angrily. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Oh, yes, Governor, we know exactly who you are. Now suppose you just go over there, have a seat on the sofa, and don’t make any trouble.”

  “Who are you? What is all this about?”

  “If both of you do exactly what we say, no one will be hurt. We just want a picture, that’s all.”

  “A picture?” the governor asked, confused by the odd request.

  “A picture, yes. Miss,” the armed spokesman said to Jenny. “I want you to take off all your clothes and go sit with the governor. We want a picture of you, naked, beside him.”

  “No! That will ruin me!” the governor said.

  “I will do no such thing,” Jenny replied indignantly.

  “Oh, you will be photographed naked with the governor,” the spokesman said. “Whether you are dead or alive when we take the picture makes no difference to us. The effect will be the same. You can take your clothes off yourself, or I’ll shoot you and we’ll strip your dead body.”

  “You had better do what they say, Jenny,” the governor said. “I have a feeling these men have been sent by my political enemies, and I’ve no doubt but that they will do just as they say.”

  “Well now, Governor, you are smarter than I thought you were.” The armed intruder grinned.

  Frightened, Jenny removed her clothes, then sat on the sofa beside the governor. The photographer took a picture, and a moment later, two of the sheriff’s deputies were brought into the room. Seeing Jenny nude, with the governor, was all they needed to bring a charge of prostitution against her.

  Luke was lying on his bunk with his hands laced behind his head, looking up at the ceiling, when Proxmire and another deputy came into the cell area with a young woman.

  Proxmire opened the door to the cell next to Luke. “All right, Miss, in there.”

  Luke sat up with a start. “Wait a minute! What are you doing? You can’t put a lady in this cell.”