Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1956

by Young Squire Morgan (v1. 1)

  Solicitor Parks pronounced a charge of assault with intent to kill. Brundage, shaggy, red-faced and clad in homespun, was represented by Squire Milo Kinstrey, who listened with mockingly cheerful interest to the evidence.

  Several persons swore to a violent quarrel between Brundage and Parham, and told how the merchant had forcibly driven Brundage out of his store. Then a withered old man, whose name was Offutt and who said that he was a traveling hog-drover, told of seeing a dark figure stealing through the trees at twilight, approaching the store, and firing a rifle at Parham just inside the window. Kinstrey paid special attention to this witness, and rose to cross-examine.

  “You say that this man who fired was Mr. Brundage?” he prompted.

  “No, Squire. I ain’t acquainted with him. I told the look of him to the sheriff.”

  “Told the look of him?” echoed Kinstrey. “Described him, you mean? What was your description?”

  “I said how he stood, he had a red face, and his gun had a brass plate on the stock.” Offutt pointed to where, on a small table, lay Brundage’s rifle as an exhibit. Its stock was set with a shiny oval of brass.

  “Did you say how big he was?” asked Kinstrey. “Did you say any height?”

  “Can’t remember for certain, Squire.”

  “Didn’t you tell the sheriff he was five feet ten or thereabout?”

  “Can’t swear to that now,” growled Offutt.

  “Thank you. That’s all.”

  Sheriff Thompson of Foresby County, a towering man with a jaw like the point of an anvil, next took the stand. He told of arresting Brundage on Offutt’s description. Kinstrey again cross-examined.

  “What was it in Mr. Offutt’s story that led you to arrest Mr. Brundage, Sheriff?”

  “He told about a man with one shoulder higher than the other, and a beard, and carrying a gun with a brass-plated stock.” The sheriff, too, gestured toward the rifle. “Ain’t but one such gun hereabouts, that I know of.”

  “Did he say what height the man was?” inquired Kinstrey. “Did he say five feet ten?”

  “Yes, sir, now that you remark on it, that’s what he said.” The sheriff’s pointed chin turned toward Brundage. “Of course, Mr. Brundage ain’t anywhere that big.”

  “Indeed he isn’t,” said Kinstrey. “Mr. Brundage, will you oblige us by standing up?”

  Brundage rose from where he sat. Upright, he proved to be a close-coupled little man with uneven shoulders.

  “How tall is he, Sheriff?” was Kinstrey’s next question.

  “Objection,” said Solicitor Parks quickly. “It calls for a conclusion of the witness.”

  “Objection sustained,” said Judge Hemphill.

  “Mr. Brundage is hardly five feet ten inches tall, though?” said Kinstrey.

  “Objection,” repeated the solicitor. “The same objection.”

  “Sustained,” said Judge Hemphill again.

  “But Mr. Offutt told you that the man who fired at Mr. Parham was five feet ten inches tall?” reiterated Kinstrey. “You’re certain of that? I see. Very good, Sheriff, I’m through with you.”

  When the defense opened its case, Kinstrey told Brundage to brace his little frame against a wall. Dramatically he marked Brundage’s height on the planks, called for a yardstick, and measured it.

  “Five feet two inches,” he announced. “Please, will an officer of the court verify what I say?”

  The crier did so.

  “If it please the court, and gentlemen of the jury,” said Kinstrey, “I remind you that the man who fired the shot was described as five feet ten inches tall, and that the man who here stands trial for the crime is but five feet two.”

  And he flashed his triumphant white-toothed grin.

  All this Jason heard with fascinated attention. Squire Colquitt, too, was all interest.

  “I’m sure that Brundage is guilty,” Colquitt whispered to Jason, “but Kinstrey is in a way to get him free on that question about height.”

  “I wonder,” Jason whispered back. “I think I could give him an answer to that.”

  “What answer?” demanded Colquitt swiftly.

  But before Jason could speak, Kinstrey rested his case, and the judge called for the attorneys to argue the evidence before the jury. Kinstrey, rising first, was eloquent and persuasive as he based his whole plea on the question of how tall his client was.

  “There can be no doubt, gentlemen,” he said, “but that the honest merchant here present, Mr. Parham, was attacked, most dangerously and in cowardly fashion, by a sneaking enemy. And a good man and a respectable one,” and he bowed sidewise to Offutt, “has told us how he saw the shot fired. The scoundrel who attempted so black a deed, who truly meant to kill Mr. Parham, should be punished to the full extent of the law. But Mr. Offutt has said that he was five feet ten inches tall—well above the average—which means that he was not Mr. Brundage.”

  He paused, letting that argument sink in deeply.

  “Mr. Brundage is one of the smallest of the grown men in this community,” he elaborated. “Indeed, there are boys of twelve who are taller than he. A man such as Mr. Brundage is called Shorty by his friends, as a nickname.”

  “And how would you reply to that?” Colquitt found time to say in Jason’s ear.

  “That a man with a gun is apt to look bigger than he usually does,” replied Jason.

  Colquitt turned in his seat, gazing at Jason with a fixed admiration.

  “You’re right, by all the powers,” he muttered. “That’s a wise observation, youngster.”

  As Kinstrey continued his plea, Colquitt rose, tiptoed across to the solicitor and tapped his shoulder. Then he stooped and whispered. Solicitor Parks looked up excitedly, turned his gaze upon Jason, then upon Brundage, and finally nodded his head vigorously. A smile came to his shrewd face.

  “And so, gentlemen of the jury,” Kinstrey was making his triumphant conclusion, “I remind you of how his Honor instructed you. I will even repeat his words: ‘Sit together, hear the evidence, and render your verdict accordingly.’ I remind you that your duty is to bring justice in this case. I wish that the man who is truly guilty were here before you, and that at your hands he would receive the punishment he richly deserves. But by now, surely you are convinced that the defendant—Mr. Brundage— is not guilty. And that is the verdict he and I ask of you.”

  Kinstrey sat down and crossed his legs. Parks rose in his turn.

  “Your Honor, and gentlemen of the jury,” he commenced, “we need not sit here long to resolve this matter. As the able attorney for the defendant has truly said, the whole matter hinges upon the question of the prisoner’s height, or what it appears to be. In that, he and I have no quarrel whatever.”

  He bowed to Kinstrey, and turned back to the jury.

  “The man who fired the shot carried a rifle.” He gestured toward the weapon on the table. “We say that this is the rifle, that it is the property of the prisoner Brundage, and that Brundage tried to kill Mr. Parham with it. Mr. Offutt yonder saw him fire it. Any man of you twelve, being sensible and law-abiding, would be shocked if you saw such a thing. A man standing in your sight, firing a rifle with intent to kill, would be terrible to look upon. Indeed—”

  Suddenly Parks snatched up the gun and lifted it across his body.

  “He might seem to grow taller and larger—”

  Parks whipped the brass-plated stock to his shoulder and aimed straight at the jury. Jason saw the men start in their chairs.

  “But you’d remember the look of him and his weapon forever!”

  Again he lowered the piece, dropping the butt to the floor. He smiled.

  “I ask you, gentlemen, when I so rudely aimed at you, did I not seem a few inches taller than I truly am?” he suggested quietly.

  And he sat down.

  Judge Hemphill gravely dismissed the jury to an inner room. Another twelve men were empaneled, another case was tried, and even as it came to an end the first jury returned.

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p; “Have you agreed on a verdict ?” asked the Judge.

  “We have,” said one of the twelve.

  The clerk rose. “Look upon the prisoner, gentlemen of the jury,” he said solemnly. “How say you ? Is he guilty of the felony whereof he stands charged, or not guilty ?”

  “Guilty,” said the man who spoke for the jury.

  Sheriff Thompson led little Brundage away.

  That evening, as court adjourned, Kinstrey hailed Colquitt and Jason outside, then hurried to overtake them.

  “Young Mr. Morgan,” he said, “I offered my compliments to Mr. Solicitor Parks, on the shrewd device with which he persuaded those jurymen to find my poor client guilty. He told me that the praise should go, not to his legal wit, but to yours.”

  “You mean, that Brundage appeared larger with a gun at his shoulder than without?” put in Colquitt. “Aye, it was well thought of.”

  “I but mentioned it in idleness,” deprecated Jason.

  “If such strategy is idly conceived with you,” smiled Kinstrey, “I pray that you are never arrayed against me in court when you are stern and serious. Young man, you have the making of a dangerous opponent at law.” The smile left his handsome face. “Dangerous,” he repeated.

  Touching his hat, he strolled away. Jason and Colquitt gazed after him.

  “That’s no unhandy man of the law himself,” commented the old Squire. “And, for all his compliments to you, lad, he didn’t like it that you sent Brundage to jail.”

  “That wasn’t my notion when I spoke about the matter,” Jason said.

  “Let your conscience be clear. Brundage was guilty. If he’s locked up, so much the better for the peace and dignity of Moshawnee. However, if Kinstrey is minded to dislike you, Solicitor Parks admires you. He said so to me, and, as I judge, to Kinstrey as well. Jason, I’ve been grateful to you. Now I’m proud of you, too.”

  6 “Everybody Does Something”

  Court week was over, and moshawnee turned suddenly into a sleepy little town. Many of the townspeople were farmers, and their efforts and attentions were for their land in clearings round about. And the visitors from farther away in the county, who had crowded the streets and stores and taverns, went back to their homes. Early spring became full spring that mid-April.

  But, though court sessions were at an end, business in Squire Henry Colquitt’s little law office seemed to boom. A succession of clients sought the Squire’s advice and representation, and Jason spent much of each day copying out legal instruments. He began to grow familiar with the forms of abstracts of title, disclaimers, petitions, answers, and papers with high-sounding titles like capias ad satisfaciendum.

  On the Thursday following adjournment of the court’s spring sessions, Major Westall returned to look at the will drawn for him by Squire Colquitt and copied by Jason. He grunted approval of terms and language, but plainly his mind was on other things. Folding the paper, he crossed his bowed old legs and blew his nose as fiercely as though he were bugling for re-enforcements on a stricken field.

  “What new rumpus is Asper Enderby going to kick up now ?” he demanded of Squire Colquitt and Jason, glancing fiercely from one to the other. “He got himself more time when the judge put the case over to the fall term—”

  “We have more time, too,” reminded Colquitt, “and we need it. Time to think about that document they mentioned but wouldn’t show us.”

  “Something about the man who signed his name as witness to the signatures, wasn’t that it?” said the Major. “What was his name?”

  “Leslie,” replied Jason. “Samuel Leslie.”

  “You remembered the name rightly,” Colquitt praised him.

  “And I remember Mr. Sam Leslie,” grumbled the Major. “He was one of the agents handling the sale of Indian lands hereabouts—an honest agent, too, which makes me wonder how Asper Enderby came to have dealings with him. And those Indians who owned this valley where Moshawnee is now—you call them to mind, Squire?”

  “High Head, the chief’s son, and Black Rabbit,” the Squire supplied the names. “They went off West when their tribe went. They’re off across the Mississippi now, in new lands, and only a few old Indians remain.”

  “Right, right.” Major Westall nodded. “And it’s the old chief’s grave that’s now in question. Wherever it is—”

  “Wherever it is, I don’t think that it’s in our public square,” put in Squire Colquitt, “else I wouldn’t be in this case as I am. I feel that Mr. Enderby’s being deceitful. And I mean to show as much in court.”

  “But what of this document about the matter?” Jason made bold to ask. “If Samuel Leslie, the Indian agent, was honest, and witnessed the signature, wouldn’t that prove the matter?”

  “I’ll engage that the Indians couldn’t read or write, and that they signed with cross-marks on the paper, without knowing truly what it said,” was Squire Colquitt’s reply.

  “And Enderby forbids and obstructs our courthouse,” added Major Westall, wrathy again. “He has another tract, and wants to sell it at a thumping sum—on the edge of town. If the courthouse is there, more houses will rise around it, and he’ll have the profitable sale of land for those, too. Well,” and he sat bolt upright in his stubborn determination, “I won’t be blackmailed by him, nor shall the town of Moshawnee.”

  He rose.

  “But there’s the matter of raising a house for the new newspaper,” he told Colquitt. “The logs will be started into place at noon. Will you be there?”

  “I may be late, but Jason will want to go.”

  “Yes, as soon as I finish my writing here,” said Jason.

  He had heard that a newcomer to Moshawnee proposed to found a weekly paper, and that the able-bodied men of the town were building a house for the editor and his welcome new enterprise in the north end of Moshawnee. Jason strolled that way after noon dinner.

  A broad vacant space had been cleared of brush, and stones mortared into a rectangular foundation. Long straight pine logs lay to one side, and sturdy axemen expertly notched these near the ends. Beyond the noise and motion of this labor stood rough tables, formed of planks on trestles. Women arranged pots and dishes there. Still farther off, over a pit filled with hardwood coals, the split halves of a big hog hung on great skewers of green wood. Two black servants swabbed the meat with barbecue sauce.

  “Haiwal” trumpeted an axe-wielder in a linsey-woolsey hunting shirt, giving an Indian greeting. “Youngster, you look to have meat and bones here. Everybody does something, so help me split some puncheons, if you know how.”

  “I’ve done such work,” replied Jason, stripping off his coat and folding it upon a big boulder. He turned back his shirt sleeves from his sinewy arms, and from a heap of tools selected a maul and two wedges.

  “Start her here,” said the man in linsey-woolsey, hacking judiciously at the end of a log. “Ain’t you young Morgan, Squire Colquitt’s lawyer-scholar? My name’s Snipe Witherspoon.”

  After acknowledging the introduction Jason thrust a wedge into the split and tapped it in to widen the seam in the wood so that Snipe Witherspoon could free his axe. Then Jason drove the wedge in with powerful strokes, set the second wedge farther along and drove it in turn. He continued until the log fell in halves.

  “Well done!” cried a voice Jason knew, and he looked up to see Squire Milo Kinstrey, impeccably dressed in fawn-colored Bolivar coat and high beaver hat. “Mr. Morgan, you’re a born wood cutter.”

  “And trying to be a lawyer,” replied Jason, to whom Kin- strey’s tone seemed bantering. He drove the wedge into a second log and split that in turn. Kinstrey watched with every appearance of deep interest, puffing on a long, thin cigar.

  “You’ll help us, Squire?” asked Snipe Witherspoon, but Kinstrey laughed and shook his handsome head.

  “I’ve no skill in such matters, friend. I leave them to my young acquaintance, Morgan.” And he walked on toward the tables, speaking gaily to the ladies there. One of them, Jason saw, was Betsy Colq
uitt.

  Others of the townspeople arrived, and entered into the activities. Jason, busy with his log-splitting, saw Major Westall supervising as several men used adzes to square off a dozen poles on opposite sides. These poles they placed crosswise on the foundation, to serve as floor timbers.

  “Now the puncheons,” called the Major.

  “Don’t we have sawed lumber for the floor?” asked someone.

  “Aye, but puncheons underneath. A solid footing will be needed for the press that goes in here.”

  A crew of men bore off the stack of split logs, while Jason and Witherspoon hurried to rive more apart. With big hammers and long spikes, the puncheons were made fast to the rough beams.

  Jason and Snipe Witherspoon were sweating over their work by now. Between strokes of his maul, Jason glanced up at someone else who had paused to watch. This was a broad-built man with a face die color of an old copper kettle, who was wrapped in an ancient ragged coat with patches of smoky deerskin here and there. Old leather leggings with musty fringe and plain cowhide moccasins completed the costume. The man’s hair was long, straight, and black, with a liberal salting of gray. He leaned on an ancient rifle, with a split stock. Thongs of rawhide held the barrel to the wood and re-enforced the clamps that contained the ramrod.

  When this old man caught Jason’s eye, he nodded, ever so slightly, his head moving no more than a fraction of an inch. Jason saw that the big nose was seamed across with a deep, jagged scar.

  “Young Mr. Morgan has a fascinated audience,” came the voice of Squire Kinstrey. “He reveals our civilized methods to the Indians.”

  Jason glanced around, lowering the maul again. Kinstrey approached, and with him was an elderly, plump man, almost as handsomely dressed in high hat and tailored gray tail coat as Kinstrey himself.

  “I don’t expect Cut Nose yonder to learn industry from anyone,” said this stranger, lowering his lids patronizingly as he looked at the old Indian.