Smoke Jensen, the Beginning

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben saw a hat with a veil, and he smiled and picked it up. “Put this on when we leave. The way you look now, you could bump right into them, and I doubt that either of them would recognize you.”

  Janey chuckled. “I think you might be right.”

  Kirby and Emmett rode into Waco on the twenty-seventh and went straight to the livery stable.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” the liveryman asked, meeting them as they dismounted.

  “We need to board our horses,” Emmett said. “Is there a place we can leave our things from the pack animals?”

  “Yes, sir. We got individual tack rooms you can rent for fifteen cents a night. For an extra nickel, you can rent a lock.”

  “Good, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “You goin’ to be here long?”

  “We’ll be ridin’ out tomorrow, but I plan to leave the two pack horses here for a while. Not sure exactly how long.”

  “Your horses will be a quarter apiece. That includes hay. Thirty cents if you want ’em to have oats.”

  “We’ll want the oats,” Emmett said. “How far is Salcedo from here?”

  “It’s about ten miles. Just follow the railroad south, and you can’t miss it. Headin’ that way, are you?”

  “I thought we might take a look.”

  “It ain’t that pleasant a town to visit if you want to know the truth of it. They’s a bunch of Yankee soldiers down there right now reconstructin’ us, ’n they’ve plumb took over the town. The mayor and the city marshal got no say at all. They got a Yankee captain that runs the town ’n a Yankee judge that makes the laws. The people o’ the town ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.”

  “I thank you for the information.”

  “But you plannin’ on goin’ anyway, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Emmett answered. “We’ll take the two saddle mounts tomorrow. Here’s sixty cents for them.”

  “What about the pack horses?”

  “I’d like to sell ’em, if you know anyone that might be interested.”

  The liveryman stroked his chin and examined the two pack horses. “I might be. How much would you be askin’ for ’em?”

  “Fifty dollars apiece.”

  “I need to make a little money from ’em. I’ll give you thirty dollars.”

  They settled on forty dollars apiece.

  The liveryman gave Emmett the money. “I’ll look after ’em real good until I sell ’em. Good luck in Salcedo.”

  Emmett nodded. “Thanks.”

  “What do you have in mind for tomorrow?” Emmett asked Kirby in their hotel room that night.

  “I don’t know, exactly, Pa. Maybe I could testify for him or somethin’.”

  “What would you say?”

  “I’d say that I rode with him when I was with the Ghost Riders, and I never saw him do anything bad.”

  “I doubt that will help.”

  “Prob’ly not. But, Pa, he’s a friend. I can’t just turn my back on a friend now, can I?”

  “No,” Emmett said. “You’re right to try and do what you can for a friend.”

  Emmett and Kirby followed the railroad south from Waco until they came to Salcedo, identified by a sign attached to the end of the depot, a small, red-painted, wooden building. Posted alongside the track was another sign.

  CAUTION TO BRAKEMEN

  NO SIDE CLEARANCE AHEAD

  As they passed the depot they saw another sign that listed the passenger schedule.

  NORTHBOUND TRAINS

  11 AM 5 PM 11 PM

  SOUTHBOUND TRAINS

  9 AM 2 PM 9 PM

  Leaving the track they had followed from Waco, they rode on into town where they passed a hangman’s gallows in the middle of the street. They stopped to read a sign that had been nailed to the gallows.

  AT TEN O’CLOCK TOMORROW MORNING

  ELMER GLEASON

  THE BUSHWHACKER BUTCHER

  WILL BE HANGED

  ON THESE GALLOWS

  “You boys here for the hangin’, are you?” asked a toothless old man.

  “Have we missed the trial?” Kirby asked. “The paper said the trial was today.”

  “No, you ain’t missed it. They’ll be holdin’ the trial at one o’clock today.”

  “I don’t understand. This sign says Elmer will be hung tomorrow morning. How can they say that if he hasn’t been found guilty.”

  “Oh, they’ll find him guilty all right. They ain’t no gettin’ around that. You called him Elmer. He a friend o’ yours, is he?”

  “Elmer is what the name on the sign says, isn’t it?” Emmett asked, speaking quickly before his son could reply.

  The old-timer nodded. “Yeah, that’s what the sign says, all right.”

  “Then that’s why we called him Elmer. Where’s the trial to be held?” Emmett asked.

  “Onliest place it can be held.” The old man pointed toward the largest building in town. “Right down there in the Scalded Cat Saloon. But iffen you’re wantin’ a drink, you’d best get it before one o’clock, ’cause that Yankee that’s been appointed judge won’t let Clyde sell any liquor while the trial is goin’ on.”

  “Thank you for the information,” Emmett said.

  “Sorry ’bout your friend.” The old man waved a hand as the two rode farther into town.

  They passed the jail. Two armed soldiers were standing out front.

  “Pa, do you think they’d let us see Elmer?”

  “I don’t know. But we won’t know unless we try.”

  Dismounting, the two tied off their horses, then started across the street toward the jail.

  One of the soldiers stepped out in front of them. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

  “We want to talk to the prisoner,” Kirby said.

  “Why?”

  “That would be between us and the prisoner,” Emmett replied.

  “Yeah? Well it don’t matter what it’s about, ’cause you ain’t goin’ to see ’im.”

  “Take their guns and let ’em see ’im,” said the other soldier, a sergeant. “He’ll be dead by a little after three today, anyway, so what’s it goin’ to hurt?”

  “All right, Sarge. If you say so,” the private said. “You boys give me your guns, ’n you can go on in.”

  Emmett and Kirby surrendered their pistols, then stepped into the office. Four men were playing cards around a desk, two civilians wearing badges and two soldiers. One of the soldiers had captain’s bars on his shoulder board.

  One of the men wearing a badge looked up. “What can I do for you?”

  Kirby spoke first. “Marshal, the sergeant out front took our weapons and told us we could visit with the prisoner.”

  “Yeah? Why do you want to visit with him?”

  “We’re looking for someone and he might be able to tell us where to find him,” Emmett said.

  The marshal was quiet for a moment, then he nodded. “All right. Go ahead, but I’ll tell you right now, he ain’t much of a talker. We’ve been tryin’ to get him to tell us if there’s any more of Quantrill or Anderson’s men down here, but he ain’t told us nothin’.”

  “You goin’ to talk all day or are you goin’ to play cards?” one of the others asked. “I’ve got a good hand here, one that’s goin’ to get me back even.”

  “Go on over there and talk to him, if you want,” the marshal said, pointing to the single cell at the back of the room.

  Kirby walked to the cell. Elmer Gleason was lying on his bunk with his hands laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Hi, Elmer,” Kirby said.

  “Damn, I thought that sounded like your voice.” Elmer sat up and threw his legs over the side of his bunk. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.

  “Well, that was damn fine of you.”

  Kirby motioned to his pa. “Elmer, this is my pa.”

  Elmer walked over to stick his hand through the bars. “It’s good to meet the boy’s pa aft
er all this time. He’s always spoke high of you, but I’m sure you know that.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Emmett replied.

  “Elmer, how’d you wind up here in jail?” Kirby asked.

  “I got drunk.”

  “Drunk? They put you in jail for bein’ drunk?”

  “Not exactly just for bein’ drunk. What happened was, I was just passin’ through town ’n I stopped in at the Scalded Cat for a couple o’ drinks. Well, it was a lot of drinks, ’n I got drunk ’n wound up tellin’ that I rode with Quantrill. I figured, this bein’ a Southern town, there wouldn’t be no problem with it. Turned out they was a lot of Yankee soldiers in the saloon alis-tenin’ to me, ’n the next thing I knew, I was arrested and brought here.”

  “Why would they arrest you for that? There’s no paper out on any of the men who rode with Quantrill, is there?” Emmett asked.

  “Not that I know of, except maybe Archie Clement,” Elmer said. “But I don’t think that matters. They want me, and they’ve got me.”

  “All right. You’ve visited with the prisoner long enough,” the marshal said. “We’ve got to get him ready for the trial.”

  “We’ll be at your trial,” Kirby said.

  “I appreciate it. And it was real nice of you two to drop by.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! This here trial is about to commence, the honorable Daniel Gilmore, presidin’,” the bailiff shouted.

  The judge stepped up from the back of the saloon and took his seat behind a table being used as the judge’s bench. He adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, then cleared his throat. “Would the bailiff please bring the accused before the bench?”

  The bailiff, who was leaning against the side wall, spit a quid of tobacco into the brass spittoon, then walked over to the table where Elmer was sitting. “Get up, you,” he growled. “Present yourself before the judge.”

  Elmer approached the bench.

  “Elmer Gleason, the charge against you is that you rode for that butchering, thieving, raping bushwhacker Quantrill,” the judge said. “How do you plead?”

  “Quantrill never raped nobody,” Elmer said. “It was only them Jayhawkers that ever done any rapin’, ’n they done plenty of it, I can tell you.”

  “You aren’t here to make a speech. I’m going to ask you again, how do you plead?”

  Keith Davenport, the attorney appointed to represent Elmer, stood up behind the table he’d shared with his defendant. “Your Honor, if it please the court.”

  “You got somethin’ to say to this court, Mr. Davenport?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Quantrill conducted all of his operations in Kansas and Missouri.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, Your Honor, we are in Texas. Even if Mr. Gleason is guilty of murder and looting, it didn’t happen in this state. Either Kansas or Missouri is the state that should be trying this case. We don’t have jurisdiction to try it here.”

  “Your Honor, if I may?” the prosecutor spoke up quickly. “Everybody knows that Quantrill spent a winter right here in Texas. That’s all we need to give this court standing.”

  The judge nodded. “Your point is well taken, Mr. Taylor.”

  “But Your Honor, these were his own people. Even if he was here, you know that neither Quantrill, nor by extension, my client, would have done any murdering or thieving while they were here.”

  “None that we know of, Your Honor,” Taylor countered. “But that doesn’t matter anyway. We’re trying this defendant for being one of Quantrill’s riders, not for any specific act of murder or robbery he may have done. Therefore, the fact that Quantrill was once in Texas, and that this defendant was with him, is all that is required to put this case under your jurisdiction.”

  The judge slapped his gavel on the bench again. “You are right, Mr. Prosecutor. Mr. Davenport, your motion for dismissal is denied. This case shall proceed.”

  “Very well, Your Honor.”

  “How do you plead?” the judge asked again.

  Before Elmer got a word out, his attorney spoke. “Your Honor, my client pleads guilty and throws himself upon the mercy of the court.”

  “What? Wait a minute!” Elmer shouted. “Judge, I ain’t pleadin’ guilty to nothin’!”

  “You have already confessed your guilt, Mr. Gleason,” the judge replied.

  “The hell I have. That was my lawyer that just done that. It warn’t me.”

  “I’m not talking about your lawyer’s plea. I’m talking about your own declaration of guilt. Did you, or did you not, confess before several assembled men in the Scalded Cat Saloon, that you rode with Quantrill?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that it was a confession,” Elmer said. “It was mostly just me drinkin’ ’n tellin’ war stories.”

  “In the telling of those stories, did you say you rode with Quantrill?” the judge asked again.

  “I ain’t confessin’ to nothin’,” Elmer said.

  “Very well,” the judge said. “Clerk, change Mr. Gleason’s plea from guilty to not guilty.”

  “Your Honor, may I have a moment with my client?” Davenport asked.

  “You may.”

  Elmer returned to the table and sat down.

  Davenport spoke quietly. “Mr. Gleason, I think you are making a big mistake here. If you plead guilty, the judge might show some mercy in his final decision. On the other, if this goes to trial, and you’re found guilty, you’ll get none.”

  “So what if I am found guilty? What’s he goin’ to do to me, tell me I can’t vote or somethin’? Hell, I ain’t never voted for nobody nohow. I ain’t got no truck with politicians.”

  “Do you really not know? No, how could you? You have been in jail all this time.”

  “What is it I don’t know?”

  “Mr. Gleason, I’m afraid that a gallows has already been constructed. You are scheduled to be hanged at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “What? How the hell can they already say I’m goin’ to be hung, when I ain’t even been tried yet?”

  “That’s the point I’m trying to make. Don’t you understand? This trial is totally immaterial. The judge has already made up his mind to find you guilty. Your only hope is to plead guilty and beg for mercy.”

  “The hell I will. I ain’t beggin’ that Yankee judge for nothin’.”

  “Very well, Mr. Gleason. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Davenport looked back toward the bench. “Your honor, the conference with my client is concluded.”

  “Have you reconsidered your plea, Mr. Gleason?” the judge asked.

  “No, I ain’t. I said I was not guilty ’n that’s what I’m standin’ by.”

  “So you say, and so it shall be. Mr. Prosecutor, are you prepared to make your case?” the judge asked.

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “You may call your first witness.”

  “You men over there,” the prosecutor said, pointing to three men sitting in the front row. All three were wearing the uniform of the US Army. “You are my witnesses. Stand up and hold up your right hand.”

  The men did as they were instructed, and the clerk swore them in.

  “Now,” the prosecutor said. “Did any of you hear this man say that he had ridden for Quantrill?”

  The witnesses answered in the affirmative.

  “We all heard him say that,” added the only sergeant within the group.

  The prosecutor turned back toward the judge. “Well, there you go, Your Honor. All three of these men have just sworn that they heard the defendant admit to being one of Quantrill’s riders during the war.”

  “Mr. Davenport, do you wish to question any of these men?” Judge Gilmore asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. You, Sergeant”—Davenport pointed to the soldier who was wearing three stripes on his sleeves—“what, exactly, did you hear my client say?”

  “He said that he rode with Quantrill ’n Bloody Bill Anders
on, ’n that him ’n others that rode with ’em kilt a bunch of Yankee ba—Aw, Judge, I don’t want to say what he called ’em. Not where women might hear.”

  “I think we can figure it out. He said that?” Judge Gilmore asked.

  The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s what he said.”

  “You may continue your cross, Mr. Davenport.”

  Davenport asked the witness, “Did he say, specifically, that he had killed civilians?”

  “Like I told you, all he said was that he had kilt a bunch of Yankee . . . you know.”

  “Sergeant, did you take part in any battles in the late war?” Davenport asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you kill anyone?”

  The sergeant smiled. “Oh, I reckon I musta kilt me at least five or six of the Secesh sons of bit—” He halted in mid-word, then corrected himself. “Uh, that is, I figure I kilt five or six of the enemy soldiers.”

  “Five or six, by your own count?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sergeant, do you consider yourself a murderer?”

  “What? No, it was war. If you kill someone in a war, that ain’t murder.”

  “If you kill someone in a war, it isn’t murder. Is that what you are saying?”

  “You’re damn right that’s what I’m sayin’.”

  Davenport looked pointedly at Elmer. “That’s good to hear. No further questions.”

  “Redirect, Mr. Taylor?” the judge asked.

  “Sergeant, did you kill any civilians during the war?” Taylor asked.

  “No, sir. Ever’one I kilt was a soldier.”

  “Thank you. I’m through with this witness.”

  “Does defense wish to call any witnesses?”

  “Your Honor, I have no—” Davenport started, but he was interrupted.

  The entire court was surprised when Kirby suddenly stood up and shouted, “Me, Your Honor!”

  Angrily, the judge rapped his gavel on the table. “Order in the court! Here, what do you mean by interrupting my court in such a way?”

  “I’d like to be a witness on behalf of the defendant.”