After a moment or two, she pulled away from him and wiped her nose with the handkerchief she held clutched in her hand.
“I know you say that no one can help,” she said. “But I do thank you for being here.”
“Excuse me, madam,” one of the reporters said, sticking his head into the kitchen at that moment. “But I was wondering if ... that is, we were wondering . . . if you had any coffee prepared. We could drink it as we await our dinner.”
“Go back and sit down,” Falcon said. “I’ll bring you some coffee.”
“Thank you, that is very nice of you,” the reporter said.
Falcon helped Frances serve dinner, then held the chair for her before sitting down himself. The reporters had been discussing the local story, as well as several other events.
“MacCallister,” the reporter from New York said. “I seem to know that name.”
“I’m sure it’s a fairly common name,” Falcon said.
“Wait, I know what it is,” the reporter said. “There is an acting team in the New York theater, quite well known they are. Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister. I believe, in fact I am sure, that they are husband and wife.”
Falcon shook his head. “They are brother and sister,” he said.
The New York reporter laughed. “Really, Mr. MacCallister. And just how would someone like you know that?”
“Because they are my brother and sister,” Falcon said.
“You don’t say.” It was obvious by the tone of the reporter’s voice that he didn’t believe Falcon.
Falcon chuckled. “Surely you don’t think I would brag about having relatives in New York, do you?” Falcon asked, and the other reporters, all of whom were from Western areas, laughed.
“Mr. Caulder, I can’t believe you don’t know who Mr. MacCallister is,” Stanley Morgan said. Morgan was from the Denver newspaper.
“Good heavens,” Caulder said. “You aren’t going to tell me that this big galoot is an actor as well.”
“Hardly,” Morgan said. “But he is one of the best-known pistoleros in the West. Some say he is better than Wild Bill Hickock ever was, that he is superior to Wyatt Earp, or Clay Allison, or Temple Houston.”
“Oh, my,” Caulder said. “Are you what they call a gunfighter? Have you ever killed anyone, Mr. MacCallister?”
“For God’s sake, Caulder, didn’t you do any research at all before you left New York?” Morgan asked.
“Yes,” MacCallister said. “I’ve killed.”
“How many?”
“I don’t think that is anything you need to know.”
“It’s a morbid question, I admit, and I apologize for asking,” Caulder said. “It is just that, before I came out here, I did a story about the Phantom Sharpshooter of Devil’s Den. So I have such things on my mind. I’m sure that’s why my editor sent me here to cover the many shootings that have taken place.”
“Who is the Phantom Sharpshooter of Devil’s Den?” one of the other reporters asked.
“Well, that’s just it. Nobody really knows, actually.” Caulder replied. “Oh, we know his name, and we know he is a New Yorker, but that’s all we know about him. He seems to have just disappeared after the war, and all efforts to find him have proven fruitless.”
“What is his name?”
“His name is Fitzpatrick O’Neil. He is an Irishman.”
“An Irishman, was he?” Morgan asked. He laughed. “And tell me now, Mr. Caulder, what are the odds of someone named Fitzpatrick O’Neil being Irish?”
The others laughed as well.
“What did you find out about O’Neil?”
“Practically nothing,” Caulder replied. “Except for the remarkable job of shooting he did during the Battle of Gettysburg. It is said that he killed twenty-three rebels in a single afternoon, every victim taken with a single shot from a distance of over three hundred yards.”
“Twenty-three in a single afternoon?” Morgan replied with a whistle. “I think that would make even our most productive gunman take notice. What do you think, Mr. MacCallister?”
“I think Mr. O’Neil probably has some ghosts to deal with,” Falcon said in a tone of voice that indicated he knew what he was talking about.
“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt this spirited conversation,” Frances said. “But I’m going to have to clear the table so I can get the dishes washed for breakfast in the morning.”
“A most reasonable request, madam,” Caulder said. “I must write my first report anyway. I’ll work on it tonight. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night,” the others said.
The others left, but Falcon remained at the table.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“No need,” Frances said. “I can do it myself.”
“I didn’t ask if you needed me to help,” Falcon said. “I was asking your permission to let me help.”
Francis chuckled. “Well, of course you can help if you want to.”
“I want to,” Falcon said, picking up several of the plates and carrying them in to the kitchen.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” Frances said. She had been heating water on the stove and she poured this into one dishpan, to which she added soap. Another pan beside it held clear water for rinsing.
“Can you believe there are so many reporters here?” Frances said as she began washing the dishes.
“We seem to have drawn them,” Falcon replied as he took the first plate to dry. “Where do I put this?”
“Just stack them on the sideboard. I’ll be using them for breakfast.”
“The reporter from New York is quite a talkative fellow.”
“He’s rather typical of New Yorkers, though,” Frances said.
“Have you met many New Yorkers?”
“I was born and raised in New York City,” Frances said.
“You were? I didn’t know that.”
Frances chuckled. “Given your apparent disdain for New York, I thought it best not to tell you.”
“I have no disdain for New York. You heard me tell the reporter that my brother and sister are there. Besides, I fought against some New York Regiments during the war. I know what good men they were.”
“You fought for the South?”
“Yes.”
“I was for the North.”
“I figured as much. I had a brother who fought for the North.”
“Such is the tragedy,” Frances said. “I guess there were a lot of families divided by the war.”
“What brought you to the West?” Falcon asked.
“I got married after the war. My husband was a railroad man, and he was excited by the prospect of being able to cross this entire country by train. He signed on with the Union Pacific, and we wound up out here.”
“You said he was killed in a railroad accident?”
“Yes. A trestle across Dead Horse Gulch gave way, and his engine fell about two hundred feet.”
“I’m sorry.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “At least he is with Gordon now,” she said.
Twenty-one
From the pen of Lee Caulder:
Special to the New York Standard.
LARAMIE, WYOMING TERRITORY. The first thing one notices when stepping down from the train in Laramie is that the entire city is blanketed in a pall of smoke. The smoke emanates from the rolling mill, a huge, exceedingly ugly edifice which houses the machinery for making steel rails. The people of Laramie are quite proud of this factory as it employs well over a hundred of their fellow citizens.
The next thing one notices is the horrible odor that permeates the entire town. For the most part, this is due to the condition of the streets, filled as they are with droppings from the horses, mules, and draft oxen that ply their ways in pursuit of commerce. It is also due to the fact that the city has no sanitary department to speak of, and thus refuse of all description is allowed to collect at various points around the town.
But for all this, Laramie is now the center of atten
tion for much of the nation. It has achieved this level of prominence from the fact that, within the last three weeks, nine men have been shot down in the streets. Two more men have died by the piteous method of having had their throats cut.
And who is responsible for all the violence? If the prosecutor and the people of the town are to have their way, the responsibility will fall upon the head, or perhaps I should say the neck, of a man named Carney.
I am sorry, dear readers, that I cannot give you more of a name than that. From the moment of his capture, Carney has refused to disclose his entire name, though it is believed that his name might be Carney Purvis. This belief is fostered by the fact that the leader of the violent gang to which Carney belonged is Johnny Purvis. Purvis has instigated a series of murders, and in a bit of vainglory, has left notes penned to the bodies of his victims in which he demands the release of his brother, Carney.
Of course, one could make the case that he is using the term “brother” in the same way that various gangs of ruffians have referred to themselves as a “brotherhood,” thus including all who belong as their brother. But most believe that in this case, Carney really is the biological brother of Johnny Purvis.
The trial of Carney Purvis begins at one o’clock on the fifth instant, and your intrepid reporter will be present from the fall of the judge’s gavel until the end of the trial. Although seats in the courthouse are at a premium, some have been set aside for the many reporters present, and by my pen, you, my dear reader, shall be able to follow the entire event, word by word.
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Caulder hurried to the railroad depot in order to make arrangements to send to his editor, by wire, the story he had written the night before.
“Do you plan to do this every day?” the telegrapher asked, looking at the message.
“I do,” Caulder said.
The telegrapher whistled, and shook his head. “That is going to cost you a lot of money,” he said.
Caulder smiled. “No, my good man,” he replied. “That is going to cost my editor a lot of money.”
* * *
The Albany County Courthouse was a substantial, two-story brick building with long, narrow arched windows and doors. It was surrounded by poplar trees that were in full foliage, thus providing some shade for the building.
Even before the trial started, staff workers had gone about with long, hooked poles, drawing the windows down from the top, and lifting them from the bottom, thus providing cross ventilation, which, with the shade of the trees, made the courtroom very pleasant.
The door to the courtroom was opened at twelve-thirty, one half hour before the trial was to begin. Sheriff Gibson and two of his deputies stood at the door, taking the guns from all who entered.
“What do you mean I can’t come in here wearin’ my gun?” one of the cowboys asked. “I wear my gun ever’where I go.”
“And you can still wear it everywhere you go,” Sheriff Gibson said. “You just can’t wear it in this courtroom.”
The cowboy wasn’t the only one to complain, but like the cowboy, everyone who was asked to shed their guns did so.
“Falcon, I hate to ask you to get shed of your gun,” the sheriff said. “I asked Judge Blair if I could appoint you a temporary deputy, but because you are a witness, he said that it wouldn’t be proper.”
“I understand,” Falcon said. He removed his pistol and handed it, handle first, to the sheriff.
“Do you have a holdout gun?” the sheriff asked.
Falcon hesitated for a moment, then pulled the double-barrel derringer from his boot and handed it over as well.
“I’m sorry,” Gibson said again.
“You’re just doing your duty, Sheriff,” Falcon said as he went inside the courtroom to take a seat. Because he was a witness, a seat was reserved for him in the first row, where he sat next to Kathleen.
* * *
“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this court in and for the County of Albany is now in session, the Honorable Judge Jacob Blair, presiding. God bless the United States of America, the Territory of Wyoming, and this honorable court! All rise,” the court bailiff shouted.
The gallery of the court was packed, with every seat occupied. There was a scraping of feet and rustle of clothing as all stood.
Wearing a black robe, Judge Blair entered the courtroom from a door in front, stood behind the bench for a moment, then sat down.
“Be seated,” he said.
The spectators sat.
“What is the purpose of this court?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor, there comes before this honorable court one Carney, who is charged with bank robbery, and for the murder of Gene Frazier,” the bailiff announced.
“Carney? Is that a first name or a last name?”
“We don’t know, Your Honor,” the bailiff replied. “The only name he would give us is Carney.”
“Mr. Carney, what is your name?” Judge Blair asked.
“Carney,” Carney replied, and there was a smattering of laughter through the court.
Judge Blair slammed his gavel down. “Order in the court,” he said sternly. “Very well, let the record reflect that the man we are trying”—he paused for a moment and stared directly at Carney—“and the man we may ultimately hang, shall be known only as Carney.”
“You think my brother’s a’goin’ to let you hang me?” Carney asked. “I can tell you right now, he ain’t a’ goin’ to allow it.”
“Mr. Carney, one more outburst from you, and I will have you bound and gagged. Do you understand that?”
Carney didn’t answer.
“Do you understand that, sir?” Judge Blair asked in a louder and more commanding voice.
“Yeah,” Carney said.
“You do mean, ‘Yes, Your Honor,’ do you not?” Judge Blair asked.
Carney didn’t answer.
“You do mean ‘Yes, Your Honor,’ do you not?” Blair repeated.
Carney still didn’t answer.
“Sheriff, get manacles and a gag.”
“Yes, Your Honor!” Carney said quickly.
Blair waited for a moment; then he looked at Sheriff Gibson. “You may stand down, Sheriff,” he said. “Counsel for the defense, if you do not keep your client in check, I will hold you in contempt. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyer sitting beside Carney said.
“Very good. Now, will counsel for defense publish his name and qualifications?”
The lawyer sitting beside Carney stood. “I am counsel for the defense, Your Honor, appointed by the court. My name is Anthony Norton, duly authorized by the bar of Wyoming to practice law.”
“Very good,” Judge Blair said. “Is prosecution present?”
Bill Nye stood. “I have been appointed by the county prosecutor to act as prosecutor, Your Honor. I am Bill Nye.”
“Mr. Nye, I trust that you will not, in the middle of this trial, write a letter to the President of the United States tendering your resignation.”
The gallery, knowing that the question was in reference to Nye’s letter resigning as postmaster, laughed out loud and Judge Blair, because he had made the joke, not only allowed the laughter, but joined in.
“I will see the case through, Your Honor.”
“Aren’t we the lucky ones, though?” Judge Blair said sarcastically. “All right, Mr. Prosecutor, I invite you to make your case.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Nye said.
* * *
As Nye walked over to begin his presentation to the jury, Falcon noticed that the jury was composed of men and women. For a moment it startled him. Then he remembered having read that Wyoming was the only state or territory in the nation that allowed women to vote, as well as serve on a jury.
“Ladies,” Nye said, beginning his presentation. He made a slight bow to them, and Falcon noticed that the four women on the jury nodded their heads back at him. “And gentlemen of the jury. There are, in this city today, women
who have been deprived of their husbands, children deprived of their fathers, and even a grieving mother, deprived of her child. . . .”
“I object, Your Honor!” Norton shouted.
“You are objecting to my opening statement?” Nye said, turning away from the jury.
“Mr. Norton, to what are you objecting?” Judge Blair asked.
“I’m objecting to counsel’s mention of the number of widows and fatherless children in Laramie,” Norton said.
“Are you making the claim that the statement is false?” Nye asked. He pointed to the row of newspaper journalists who were busy taking notes. “Surely you don’t think newspapermen came from all over the country just to cover the trial of your client? Your objection is denied.”
“You are out of order, Mr. Nye,” Judge Blair said sternly. “I will rule on the objection.”
“I was just trying to help out, Your Honor,” Nye said, and the gallery laughed.
“Objection denied,” Blair said.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Nye replied. Turning to the jury, he continued his opening remarks, speaking for another five minutes before ending it with the statement that “. . . after all the facts are in evidence, I feel certain that you will find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Norton didn’t approach the jury, but spoke from his position behind the defendant’s table.
“Despite the prosecutor’s brazen attempt to suggest that my client was, in some way, responsible for the fact that there are many widows and fatherless children in Laramie now, I hope you realize that he is being tried for one murder, and one murder alone. And I intend to present evidence that will introduce doubt as to whether Mr. Carney was personally responsible for the death of Mr. Frazier.”
Norton held up his finger for a long moment, as if asking the jury to focus on his next statement. “And I remind you that the law requires you to be satisfied, beyond the shadow of a doubt, as to the guilt of a person, before you can find him guilty. If you cannot find him guilty, beyond the shadow of a doubt, you must acquit. Thank you.”
Norton sat down, and Nye called his first witness.
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