“Because of your brother,” Ace said.
“You’ll see,” McLaren said in a surly voice. “When Otis comes back, you’ll all see.” He retreated to the bunk with the tray.
Ace went back into the office. As he closed the cell block door, Chance and Miguel Soriano came in the front.
“I just took the prisoner’s breakfast in to him,” Ace reported as he pointed a thumb at the cell block. Then he nodded toward the tray with its empty plates and coffee cup that sat on the desk and added, “I already had mine.”
“Everything’s set up over in the courtroom,” Miguel said. “We brought in some extra chairs, but I don’t reckon they’ll be enough. This trial is the biggest thing that’s happened in Lone Pine for a long time. Maybe ever.”
“There’s a lot of talk around town this morning,” Chance said. “Folks are nervous. Some of them are afraid of McLaren’s friends, and others are worried that Otis McLaren will show up.”
“Best way to deal with that is to have a nice, quick trial and get it over with,” Miguel said. “Then people will see that justice is done.”
“Is there any chance that Otis McLaren might interrupt the trial?” Ace asked. “Pete just threatened me with that again when I took in his breakfast.”
Miguel shook his head. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of Otis McLaren in these parts for a long time. Given the violent sort of life he led, there’s a good chance he’s dead by now.” He grunted. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a very Christian thing to say I hope so.”
“Nothing wrong with hoping there’s no trouble,” Ace said. “Whatever it takes.”
Miguel sat down behind the desk. Time passed slowly as Ace and Chance cleaned the shotguns they would be carrying as they escorted the prisoner to the town hall.
Finally Miguel took a turnip watch from his pocket, opened the case, checked the hour, and snapped it shut. “Time to go.” He took a shotgun down from the rack, broke it open, and thumbed shells into the two chambers. He went into the cell block, followed by Ace, while Chance remained in the office just outside the cell block door.
Miguel twisted the key in the lock and said, “Let’s go, McLaren.”
McLaren stood beside the bunk. He swallowed hard and didn’t move.
“We can come in there and drag you out,” Miguel said.
With a resigned sigh, McLaren put his hat on and moved slowly toward the door. Ace and Miguel moved apart, so when the prisoner stepped out they were covering him from different angles without being in the line of fire themselves.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Miguel ordered.
“You’re gonna make me walk over there with my hands cuffed?”
“I damn sure am. Now do what I told you.”
McLaren put his hands behind his back.
Miguel moved in and swiftly and surely fastened the metal cuffs around McLaren’s wrists then put a hand in the middle of his back and gave him a little shove. “Let’s go.”
Chance opened the office door and checked the street. “Lots of folks around, but I don’t see any of McLaren’s friends this morning. They must be lying low.”
“I checked around earlier,” Miguel said. “José said they rode out after last night’s business with Royal Carhart at the cantina, and nobody’s seen them since. Hear that, McLaren? Looks like your pards have lit a shuck. They don’t want any part of what’s going to happen to you.”
McLaren muttered a curse but didn’t say anything else.
The buzz of conversation in the street stopped abruptly as Ace, Chance, and Miguel escorted McLaren out of the building. Miguel led the way toward the town hall while Ace and Chance followed with the prisoner, flanking McLaren and staying a little behind him as he trudged through the dusty street.
The crowd on the porch of the town hall parted as the little procession approached. Ace, Chance, and Miguel took McLaren through the gap, through the open double doors, and into the courtroom.
Once again every spectator chair in the place was occupied, and people stood along the walls, even more than during the hearing several days earlier. They watched in silence as the three men took McLaren up to the defense table where Solomon Horton sat, scowling.
“I demand that you take those handcuffs off my client, Marshal,” Horton said as the group reached the table. “This is a disgrace! An outrage!”
Miguel took the handcuff key from his watch pocket. “He can have his hands cuffed in front of him so it’ll be easier for him to sit, but he’ll still have to wear them. He’s charged with two counts of murder, you know, not getting drunk and starting a ruckus.”
“Such treatment is prejudicial—”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with the judge.” Miguel unlocked the cuffs and transferred them to the front when McLaren brought his arms back around. He put a hand on McLaren’s shoulder and pushed him down into the empty chair at the defense table.
As McLaren and Horton started talking together in low voices, Miguel stepped back and said to Ace and Chance, “Keep an eye on him. I’ll go see if the judge is about ready to get started.” He went to the door that led into the judge’s “chambers”—just a small office at one side of the main room.
A few minutes later, Miguel stepped back out and called, “All rise.”
Ace and Chance were already on their feet. Everyone else stood up. Judge Ordway came in wearing a sober black suit and went to the heavier, raised table that served as his bench. He sat down, and Miguel told everybody else to do likewise.
Ordway rapped his gavel. “Court is now in session in the matter of the Territory of New Mexico versus Peter McLaren, a citizen of said territory. The charge is two counts of murder, as well as lesser charges of attempted murder and unlawful flight from custody. How does the defendant plead?”
Horton nodded to McLaren, and both of them stood up.
“Solomon Horton for the defense, Your Honor. My client pleads guilty—”
An abrupt stir filled the room. Ordway glared and gaveled the interruption to silence.
Horton resumed. “Guilty to the charge of unlawful flight. He pleads not guilty of all other charges.”
Ace and Chance had withdrawn to the back of the aisle between the two sections of spectators’ chairs, where they stood with the shotguns cradled in their arms. Ace was a little surprised McLaren had pled guilty to anything, even the charge of busting out of jail, but he figured Horton had talked McLaren into that. The charge wasn’t worth defending, Ace supposed. It would carry a relatively short prison sentence. The attempted murder charge would land McLaren behind bars for a considerably longer time.
But none of that would matter if McLaren was convicted of the two murder charges. Those were the ones he had to fight. He would never serve any time for the other crimes if he wound up on the gallows for the killings.
“Very well,” Judge Ordway said when the pleas had been entered by the court clerk, who sat off to the side at a little desk. “Is the prosecution ready?”
Timothy Buchanan stood up. “It is, Your Honor.”
“And the defense?”
“Ready and eager to have justice done on behalf of my client, Your Honor,” Horton said. “And to that end, I make a motion for a change of venue.”
Chance looked over at Ace and frowned. Ace gave a little shake of his head. He didn’t believe the judge would grant Horton’s motion.
“A change of venue, Counselor?” Ordway said.
“That’s right, Your Honor. Due to the unreasonable level of hostility toward my client in this town, I believe it’s impossible for him to get a fair trial in Lone Pine.”
“The attitude of the town’s citizens toward your client is a direct result of his actions, Mr. Horton. He can’t use past misdeeds to his advantage now. Besides, only the facts of this case are relevant to these proceedings. Your motion is denied.”
“I want to object for the record, Your Honor.”
“Go right ahead,” Ordway said. “It’s duly no
ted. Now, then. The defendant has a right to a trial by a jury of his peers. Do you wish to waive that right, Mr. McLaren?”
“My client does not, Your Honor. We request a trial by jury.”
“I haven’t heard a word from your client yet, Counselor. Mr. McLaren, do you waive your right to a trial by jury?”
“No sir, Your Honor.” McLaren turned his head and cast a look over the spectators. “Let ’em stand in judgment of me, if that’s what they’re bound and determined to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ace thought the cold-eyed, vicious expression on McLaren’s face was intended as a warning, and judging by the nervous murmur that ran through the crowd, so did many of the spectators.
Ordway smacked his gavel on the table and snapped, “I didn’t ask for a comment, Mr. McLaren. Just an answer. A trial by jury it is. You can sit down. Mr. Buchanan, I believe you keep a list of eligible jurors on hand?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said as he got to his feet. He picked up several sheets of paper from the table in front of him. “I’ll read off the first twelve names on the list.”
The names of the dozen townsmen from Lone Pine meant nothing to Ace. He didn’t recognize any of them.
When Buchanan was finished, Judge Ordway said, “If those men are in attendance, step forward.”
Nobody budged.
Ordway leaned forward and peered through slitted eyes at the crowd. “I know some of you are out there. I see a couple of you. Now come forward, or you’ll be fined for contempt of court.”
A man got to his feet. “You go ahead and fine me, Judge, but I got a family dependin’ on me. I’d rather pay a fine than have Pete McLaren holdin’ a grudge against me!”
That brought muttered agreements from several others in the crowd.
Ordway rapped the gavel. “You can’t refuse to serve on a jury without a good reason!”
The man who had stood up coughed. “I got a good reason. I’m sick.”
Ordway’s face darkened in anger.
Buchanan looked mad, too, but he said, “There are other names on the list, Your Honor. Perhaps those men will be willing to perform their civic duty. I suggest in the interests of simplicity, we move on.”
Ordway jerked his head in a nod. “Proceed, Counselor.”
Buchanan opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, a veritable stampede occurred as men got to their feet and headed for the doors. Everybody had been anxious to attend the trial and see Pete McLaren get what he had coming to him, but clearly it hadn’t occurred to them that they might have to play a part in it.
Ace and Chance could have blocked the exit, but as they glanced at Miguel Soriano to see what he wanted them to do, the acting marshal spread his hands and shrugged. Nobody could be legally forced to attend a trial.
The Jensen brothers stood aside and allowed the unexpected exodus to proceed.
The effort to intimidate the witnesses against McLaren had had an unexpected side effect, Ace realized. Rumors had spread through the town and fueled fears. Coupled with McLaren’s reputation, that made folks afraid to serve as jurors. From the slight smirk that had appeared on McLaren’s lips, Ace figured the prisoner had been hoping something like that would happen.
The defendant had a right to a trial by jury. If the court couldn’t seat a jury . . .
Ace didn’t know enough about the law to know what Judge Ordway would do in a situation like that. He couldn’t just drop the charges and set McLaren free, although Ace was sure that’s what Solomon Horton would press for.
The longer things remained unresolved, the greater the chance something else would happen.
Ordway waited a minute or so for the hubbub to die down then banged his gavel on the table until the room was quiet again. Snarling out the words in barely suppressed fury, he said, “The court will take a short recess. Marshal, take the prisoner back to jail. I’ll send for him when we’re ready to resume.” With that, the judge smacked the gavel down again, stood up, and stalked out of the courtroom into the office at the side. The door slammed behind him.
“You heard the judge,” Miguel told McLaren. “On your feet.”
Horton said, “Surely you’re not going to cuff my client’s hands behind his back again just to take him down the street.”
Miguel hesitated. “All right, he can keep his hands in front of him. But if he tries anything, he’ll get six loads of buckshot for his trouble.”
“He’ll cooperate fully,” Horton said.
And why wouldn’t he? Ace thought. To the surprise of just about everybody in the courtroom, things were going McLaren’s way.
Judging by the smirk on McLaren’s lips, he knew it, too.
* * *
McLaren still looked cocksure and arrogant when Ace slammed the cell door a few minutes later. He took off his hat, tossed it on the bunk, and grinned through the iron bars. “That didn’t go the way you expected, did it?”
“If you’re counting on going free, don’t bet on it,” Chance said as he continued to cover McLaren with a shotgun.
“Can’t have a trial without jurors,” McLaren taunted.
“You didn’t expect that to happen,” Ace said. “You were just as surprised as the rest of us when it did. But you’ll take advantage of it if you can, I know that.”
The Jensen brothers went out into the office where Miguel was talking with Timothy Buchanan. Ace closed the cell block door.
“Mr. Buchanan and I are going to talk to some folks,” Miguel said. “We need to impress on them just how important it is that they do what the law calls for.”
Holding the list of potential jurors, Buchanan said, “I saw a lot of men going into the Melodian just a few minutes ago. I’m sure at least a dozen of them are on this list. Why don’t we start there, Marshal?”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Miguel said with a nod. “Maybe we can get enough of them to agree and won’t have to go all over town rounding up more. Ace, come along with us. People need to see a show of force from the law, and right now that’s what you fellas represent, whether you’re wearing badges or not.”
“You want me to stay here and hold down the fort?” Chance asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
Ace said, “There ought to be someone else on guard with Chance.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” his brother assured him. “I’ll line up three Greeners on the desk and have them ready. That’ll be enough to stop a small army. Anyway, McLaren’s friends lit a shuck, remember?”
“They could come back,” Miguel warned. “Stay alert.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
Ace, Miguel, and Buchanan left the office and headed for the Melodian. It was a little early in the day for drinking, but after what had happened at the town hall, folks weren’t too concerned about that.
The saloon was busy, just as they expected. Men lined the bar and sat at the tables. The bartenders and the serving girls went about their work with swift efficiency. Hank Muller should have been happy with the profits he was making, but a grim expression filled his bulldog-like face as he surveyed the room from the end of the bar.
The talk in the room carried an uneasy tone. Nobody was telling bawdy jokes or laughing at them. They were discussing the trial and the way it had been interrupted.
The conversations came to a halt as men noticed that Ace, Miguel, and Buchanan had come in.
The man who had spoken up in the courtroom threw back the whiskey in the glass he clutched. “You can’t force us to serve on a jury. There’s gotta be a law against that!”
“Actually, Mr. Riley, there’s a law saying that the court can compel you to serve. You’ll be found guilty of contempt if you don’t,” Buchanan responded.
“Well, then, find me guilty and fine me! Like I said, I’d rather pay up than have Pete McLaren’s friends paying a visit to me and my family some dark night!”
“I’ll pay the fine, too,” another man said. “What if we hang Pete
and then his brother shows up looking for revenge? I don’t want anybody blaming me, and sure as hell not Otis McLaren!”
“Otis McLaren’s not going to come back,” Buchanan insisted. “Even if he’s still alive, he doesn’t give a damn about his brother. If he did, he wouldn’t have abandoned Pete here.”
One man at the bar rubbed his chin. “What happens if the judge fines a man and he can’t pay?”
“He’d have to serve a jail sentence,” Buchanan said.
The man nodded. “But he’d still be alive at the end of it.”
“He sure would,” another man said. “That might not be true if he served on a jury.”
Miguel’s face was flushed with anger, though he tried to control it. “Wait just a minute. That’s what the law’s here for, to protect folks so they can do what they’re supposed to without being afraid.”
“That badge don’t mean much when it’s bein’ used as a target, Deputy.”
“It’s Marshal,” Miguel snapped.
“Yeah, because Hoyt Dixon’s dead. McLaren shot him down like a dog.”
“And he ought to hang for that!”
A man at the bar said solemnly, “Maybe if we tell McLaren we’ll let him go, he’ll agree to leave town and never come back. That would be a pretty good deal for him, wouldn’t it?”
Several others nodded as they considered the suggestion.
One of them said, “He’d be so grateful he wouldn’t bother us no more.”
Buchanan burst out, “Are you people crazy? McLaren’s a mad dog! You could never trust his word, and even if you could, what about Marshal Dixon? What about Dolly Redding? Don’t they deserve justice?”
“The marshal didn’t have no family around here. Hangin’ McLaren wouldn’t bring him back to life. As for the girl, she was just—”
“Shut up!” The furious roar came from Hank Muller. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifted him from the floor, and started shaking him. “Shut your damn filthy mouth!”
“Hank . . .” Buchanan said.
With a disgusted snort, Muller shoved the man away from him. His scathing gaze swung over the entire crowd. “All of you make me sick! Dolly might not have been the sort of girl you’d take home for Sunday dinner, but she was a human being, damn it! She had hopes and dreams just like the rest of us, and McLaren killed her! I thought I served men in this saloon, but you’re all squeaking and scurrying around like a bunch of mice!”
Twelve Dead Men Page 14
