by Gary D. Svee
Mac was simultaneously shaken and embarrassed. Bert Edgar was standing on the step with his hat in his hand. His face was twisted as though he were going to cry. Catherine invited him into the kitchen, and Mary set about making some coffee. Bert took a chair at the table, wrestling between his attempt to speak and his attempt to hold back his tears.
Mac watched the struggle, both dreading and needing to know what had upset the deputy so. Bert took his cup of coffee as though it were the Eucharist. He raised his eyes, then, to Catherine and told her with stark simplicity: “Frank is dead.”
Mac thought Catherine knew what Bert was going to say before Bert did. She and Frank were so much a part of each other that she must have felt his passing. But when the words came, she just wilted.
Mary grabbed Catherine’s shoulders, helping her to a chair.
“How did it happen, Bert?” Mary asked.
“There was a shootout in Galt’s smithy. Frank and Leaks Donnan are … dead. Galt was shot in two places, but he wasn’t hurt bad. Doc stitched him up and sent him home.”
“I talked to Galt. He said Frank came into the smithy shooting wild. Frank shot Galt twice, and then Leaks stepped out of the shadows. They both fired at the same time … and killed each other.”
“No!”
Mac’s face twisted into a mask of pain. “No! Frank Drinkwalter wouldn’t have done that. No!”
Bert looked up at Mac. “I don’t believe it, either, but Galt is the only one alive. That was the story he was telling. There isn’t anything much we can do.”
Bert turned to Catherine. “They have Frank down at the furniture store.”
She seemed strangely calm. “I want to go to him.”
Mary nodded. “I’d like to go, too.”
Bert stood. “Peter Pfeister figured that. He brought a buggy out and walked back to town. Plenty of room.”
The three stepped into their rooms to dress. Mary and Mac returned first. It seemed hours to Mac before Catherine came from her room, carrying a suitcase.
Mac cocked his head. Catherine wouldn’t leave now. There were too many things that needed to be done. Catherine didn’t say why she had her suitcase, and Bert didn’t ask.
Bert carried the suitcase to the buggy. Catherine and Mary and Mac settled against the buggy’s cool leather seats. Bert snapped the reins, and they set off into the black of a false dawn.
Mac could see the road, but only barely. Only the light from the depot beckoned them toward Eagles Nest. The rest of the town was as dark as their thoughts.
Frank died and the light went out in Eagles Nest, Mac thought as they rode through the cool morning air. Frank died and the light went out in me.
Mac hadn’t thought about how important Frank Drinkwalter had become to him, but memories flooded into him. When they crossed the Keyser Creek Bridge, he thought about the patch of sego lilies. That thought carried him to their hunting trip and the ride through town afterward. The day had been sunny and warm, and Mac wanted people to look at him for the first time in his life. Now he was going to town in the black of night, and he didn’t want anyone to see him.
Mac craned his neck back. Never had the stars seemed so far away.
Bert was trying hard to be a rock the other three could cling to, but occasionally he would chuff. Each time he did, Mac could feel his mother jerk as though somebody had slapped her. Catherine was just a shape in the darkness.
The buggy pulled to a stop at Timpkins Furniture Store. Bert jumped off the seat and helped Catherine and Mary down. He opened the door, and standing in the rectangle of light was Sheriff Thompson.
Thompson looked at Catherine. The two of them didn’t have enough color in their faces to put the blush on a rose petal. Thompson shook his head. He was apologizing to Catherine, Mac thought, without saying a word.
“I…” Thompson said, and then his chin dropped to his chest. The death of Frank Drinkwalter had fallen on his shoulders, and the look in Catherine’s eyes tore his heart out. Thompson stepped over to Catherine. He held both her hands in his, his face wrinkled, and then he choked and tears streamed down his face.
Mac remembered his pledge that nothing would make him cry. He broke his pledge that night.
Thompson stretched out his huge arms and pulled all of them to him. Mort Timpkins and Bert joined them. They cried, too.
When the sobbing stopped, Thompson opened his arms. Tearstains marked the places on his shirt where Catherine and Mary had laid their heads.
Catherine stepped over to Frank. She took his hand in hers and kissed him on the forehead. She turned then to ask Mort if she could pick Frank’s coffin. He showed her everything he had, and she picked one made of oak. That done, she turned to Bert. “Could you bring me my suitcase, please?”
Bert nodded. He was pleased to step out into the cool darkness of that Montana morning. He was pleased to be standing by himself drinking great draughts of morning air. When he thought he had his emotions under control, he reached into the buggy for the suitcase. He carried it inside and placed it on a chair.
Catherine opened the suitcase. Her wedding dress was there, all silk and Brussels lace and pink roses. Her ma and her grandma and her great-grandma had worn that dress at their weddings. Catherine had intended to wear the dress to her own wedding, but there would be no wedding, and she would have no child to pass the dress to.
She fluffed it, and then picked it up and carried it to the coffin. Mort Timpkins lifted the lid, and Catherine spread her dress across the bottom.
“That’s where I want it to be,” she said. “I want it to be with Frank.”
Thompson choked as though someone had hit him in the throat. Mary smiled just a little. She knew what it was to be a one-man woman. She knew about that.
Mac’s shoulders were shaking. He knew he would never forget that moment any more than he would forget sego lilies or the Beartooth Mountains or the Yellowstone River on a fall day.
The people of Eagles Nest didn’t celebrate the Fourth of July 1912. Instead, they lined up outside Frank Drinkwalter’s home, carrying casseroles and condolences with them. They popped in and popped out. They were terribly sorry, they said during their brief stays, and they would do whatever they could to help Catherine through these difficult times.
Mac stayed in the home. He answered the door, ushering the visitors into the kitchen where Catherine and Mary met them, thanking them for their consideration, answering any questions they could.
Yes, the funeral was tomorrow. No, Catherine didn’t intend to stay in Eagles Nest. No, she hadn’t decided yet what she intended to do with the house. Yes, she very much appreciated their concern and the welcome they had shown her.
Big Jim Thompson spent the day at the smithy and asking neighbors what they had seen or heard the night of the shooting.
The days moved on and the nights, running together. Mac saw them pass, dark colors through tear-filled eyes.
Bert Edgar sat at the judge’s bench like a sinner at the altar. Stillwater County Attorney Jim Pratt strutted around the court, winking at this member of the audience, stopping to talk to that one. The court was Pratt’s stage. He intended to strut and fret his piece on it.
Edgar called the coroner’s inquest to order, reading instructions Pratt had given him. The inquest would determine the nature of Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter’s death, and whether further investigation was necessary.
Pratt nodded to Edgar and called Jack Galt to the witness stand. Galt swore that he would tell the truth, so help him God, but he couldn’t hide the smirk on his face.
Pratt approached Galt as he might have approached a friend on a street corner.
“Mr. Galt, would you tell the court what you were doing late in the evening of July third.”
“Working. I was trying to finish some work I had scheduled. I try always to get my work done on time.”
Galt turned to the jury. “I commend you for that. The businessmen of Eagles Nest are known for burning the midnight oil on be
half of their customers, or their clients.”
Advertisement delivered, Pratt turned his attention back to Galt. “Did anything unusual occur that night?”
Galt leaned forward in his chair. “It sure as hell did. Sheriff Drinkwalter came in yelling like a banshee and shooting.”
Galt reached over to touch his ribs and his leg. “He shot me twice before I even knew what happened. If it hadn’t been for Leaks Donnan, the sheriff would have killed me.”
Galt dropped his eyes to the floor. “My friend Leaks Donnan stepped out to save me and it cost him his life. Drinkwalter shot him down as though he were nothing more than a dog.”
“Do you have any idea what prompted him to do this?”
Galt shook his head. “I have no idea what caused him to shoot me and Leaks Donnan. I didn’t ever do anything to him or anyone else in this town. I’m an honest businessman. I’ve never been charged with a crime, not here or anywhere else, but he’s been spreading stories about me, stories that were completely false.”
Galt dropped his eyes. “Donnan was my friend, trying to save my life, and the sheriff shot him to death.”
“Bullshit!” The word rattled the windows in the courtroom, and Big Jim Thompson marched to the front of the courtroom. Pratt turned twenty shades of white, and Galt seemed bent on slithering out of the courtroom on his belly.
“Bullshit!” he roared again, and there wasn’t a soul there who didn’t know Big Jim was in charge.
Thompson stood in front of Bert Edgar, gripping an old flour sack so tightly that his knuckles glowed white.
Thompson’s face pulsed red and purple. Lightning flashed from his eyes. He stood there like God’s right hand, and his voice rumbled like thunder.
“I will not let this little pipsqueak demean the most honorable man I’ve ever known.”
Big Jim tapped Pratt on the chest with his index finger and knocked him back three steps. Then he stomped over to the chair where Galt was sitting. The room shook with the force of his steps.
He leaned down until he was nose to nose with Galt. Galt squirmed, trying to get away from Thompson’s eyes, but they were too strong, and he was too weak.
“This outstanding businessman your county attorney praised so mightily is a murderer, a man who takes knives to women. He cuts them up in ways that would shame the devil. He did that in Billings. He did that in Glendive. Everywhere he goes he leaves some woman dead and mutilated.”
“This son of a bitch killed Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter, and I can prove it.”
Pratt was standing beside the judge’s bench gulping. Finally he found his voice.
“I will not have this legal proceeding interrupted by a man who has obviously lost his mind.”
Thompson swiveled around, putting the full force of his glare on Pratt.
“You going to throw me out, Pratt?”
Pratt shook his head and collapsed into a chair.
“You gonna throw me out, Bert?”
Bert Edgar, wide-eyed, shook his head.
Sheriff Thompson turned his attention on the crowd. “Any yahoo in here fixing to toss me out?”
Not one man moved. Not one sound issued from the courtroom.
Thompson took a deep breath. Then he took another, and the color dulled to a soft, hot red, like the coals in Jack Galt’s forge.
“Do you remember what this piece of dog puke said about Sheriff Drinkwalter coming into the room shooting?”
One of Thompson’s eyes squinted shut as he stared around the room. “Damn it! Nod if that’s the way you remember this lying little weasel’s story!”
Heads bobbed in unison.
Thompson turned to the coroner’s jury. “That the way you remember it?” he said, his voice softer. The jury nodded.
“Now, what I’m going to show you will upset some of you. It sure as hell upset me, but I don’t know any other way.”
Thompson put his sack on the table. He opened the top and reached inside.
“This,” he said, holding a shirt by the shoulders, “is Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter’s shirt, stained with his own life’s blood. You’ll notice there isn’t much blood on it. That’s because the bullet shattered his heart. There was nothing left to pump blood out of his body.
“Now, I’ll tell you what isn’t on this shirt—powder burns. Doc and I went over it together with a magnifying glass, and there isn’t one speck of powder on it.”
“You’ll have to take my word for this. If this was a trial, I’d bring in Doc, and he’d swear to it. But this isn’t anything but a foul-hearted attempt by that little bit of chicken droppings”—Thompson pointed to Pratt—“to besmirch my best friend’s good name and to mislead the good people of this community.”
Thompson sneered at Pratt. “Not that evidence has ever intruded on the workings of your little mind, but there were lots of powder burns around that hole in Leaks Donnan’s head. Doc and me, we did a little testing, and that muzzle wasn’t more than three or four feet from Donnan’s head when the trigger was pulled.”
“That means that Frank would have had to walk up to Donnan, shoot him at point-blank range in the head and then walk over to the other side of the forge to wait for Donnan to arise from the dead and shoot Frank in the heart. But that didn’t happen. That couldn’t have happened, and I’ll tell you why.”
Thompson took a deep breath, trying to put a damper on his anger.
“Any hunter knows that a bullet carries blood and tissue out the exit wound. The blood from Frank’s wound sprayed on the smith’s west wall. That proves he had just stepped in the door when he was shot to death.”
“Donnan was shot in the head at close range. His brain tissue sprayed against the ceiling over the forge. He had to have been leaning over a mortally wounded Frank Drinkwalter when he was shot between the eyes. Remember, Frank died instantaneously. Remember, he had no powder burns on his shirt. He was shot from some distance. So Frank couldn’t have shot Donnan.”
“There’s something else about this little game that you should know.”
Thompson leaned toward the jury box. “Now, where do you suppose it was that Doc found the most powder burns?”
Jurors shook their heads.
“Well, I’ll show you where the most powder burns were.”
The Yellowstone County sheriff reached into the sack and pulled out a bloodied pair of trousers and a shirt.
“Jack Galt’s shirt and trousers were thick with powder burns. That’s because this sniveling little son of a bitch shot himself. Not bad enough to cripple him. Just bad enough to sell his lies.”
Thompson’s eyes squeezed shut as he turn to face Pratt. “A real county attorney wouldn’t have bought this story from the get-go, but you people don’t have a real county attorney. All you have is a lawyer on the public dole.”
Thompson scowled and stalked over to Galt.
“Now, those clothes are proof of what I just said. I can’t prove the rest, but I’ll tell you what I think. There is on file a legal restraining order prohibiting Galt from going near Nelly Frobisher’s establishment. Sunday night he went to Nelly’s, knowing that Frank … Sheriff Drinkwalter … would be after him about it. Then he set up the ambush in the smithy. Donnan shot the sheriff. Galt took the sheriffs pistol and shot Donnan as he leaned over the sheriffs body, and then he shot himself. There is no other explanation for those powder burns.”
“This … this coroner’s inquest”—Thompson looked as though he wanted to spit—“was set up so that little popinjay could strut his stuff and malign an honest man’s character.”
The sheriff turned to Bert Edgar. “Bert, I know this is your first coroner’s jury, but is it serving any purpose whatsoever?”
Edgar shook his head.
“Then I suspect you should adjourn it.”
Bert nodded.
“The gavel, Bert. Rap the gavel and say this jury is adjourned.”
And Bert Edgar did.
29
Dinner was a farce. The ta
ble was piled high with food, but no one could eat. The four sat at the table, avoiding one another’s eyes. Finally Mac and Big Jim Thompson fled to the porch.
“What’s going to happen now?” Mac asked.
Thompson leaned back in his chair, twisting his neck to relieve a kink. “Pratt won’t do anything. If he did, he would be admitting he did something wrong. Everybody knows he screwed up, but he isn’t about to admit it.”
“Most of the men will be in the Absaloka, telling stories about Frank and what happened at the courthouse today. Another hour or two, some drunk will shout: ‘Let’s lynch that son of a bitch.’ That’s all it will take, just the one shout.”
Thompson looked west along the Yellowstone, watching the last sliver of the sun sink behind the horizon. “But I have five deputies posted at the Absaloka. They’ll send the crowd home. The good people of Eagles Nest will go, muttering about what a hell of a thing it is when the law has no respect for justice. But inside, they’ll be glad they were stopped. It’s a hell of a thing to take a life, Mac. Nobody wants to do that.”
Big Jim’s chair creaked under his weight as he turned to Mac. “You know why I’m not there, Mac, waiting with my deputies to meet that mob?”
Mac shook his head.
“Because I’d be the one yelling for the lynching. I’d be the first one out of that bar, hoping to put the rope around Galt’s neck. A sheriff can’t do that, can’t kill somebody in cold blood like that. But if Galt comes out here to get at your mother or Catherine, I can kill him.”
Thompson leaned over to spit off the rock, to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth.
“I should have killed him before, Mac. I should have killed him when he took that knife to the woman in Billings. But I didn’t want his rancid soul hung around my neck when I went to meet my Maker. So now I have Frank Drinkwalter’s soul hung around my neck. He was my best friend, and I let that son of a bitch Galt kill him.”
Mac’s voice scratched from a throat squeezed shut with emotion. “You didn’t know he would kill Frank.”
“No, but I knew he would kill somebody. That’s the hell of it, Mac. To stop him from killing someone else, I had to kill him. So I would damn myself to hell for someone I didn’t even know. So I did nothing, and now Frank is dead, and it’s my fault.”
