“You’d be Julian Scout.” The brute pronounced the name slowly, spitting out the last half as if it were a dead fly in a mouthful of butter.
“Have we been introduced?” Scout started to rise. A hand like a coal shovel descended to his shoulder, holding him down.
“Don’t get up. This ain’t going to take long. I seen your pitcher in the Laramie paper. That artist fellow got you down real good. You’re the bastard wants to stretch Buffalo Curly’s neck.”
“There’s a lady present,” the other reminded him angrily. He felt foolish saying it without getting up, but there was no arguing with the weight on his shoulder. He was aware that cutlery had ceased clanking around him and that every eye in the room was on them.
“I was in Abilene the time Hard-ass Hickok gunned down Phil Coe in cold blood. Any bastard that killed that back-shootin’ son of a bitch Hickok is my friend.”
The drunk swayed backward on his heels momentarily. It was the opportunity for which Scout had been waiting. He shoved away the man’s arm with the heel of a hand and pushed to his feet. Annoyed to find his napkin still clutched in one hand, he threw it down onto the table. By this time the drunk, evidently convinced that he had been assaulted, charged forward, cocking back a huge left fist. Scout moved to block it.
They never made contact. Just as the blow was hurled, the bouncer, materializing suddenly from the shadows, caught it from behind. The drunk’s forward momentum would have pitched him over onto his face were it not for the man holding his wrist. He had an inch on his captor and nearly fifty pounds, but his bulk was mostly fat while the restaurant employee’s was solid meat. The bouncer jerked the drunk’s arm downward and up behind his back, twisting it. Frantically, his prisoner swept aside the skirt of his coat and reached for something that shone dully inside the waistband of his pants.
“Watch it, he’s got a pistol!” barked Scout. Grace screamed.
There was a deafening explosion. Scout caught his breath, in his confusion certain that he had been shot. But the drunk was standing there blinking stupidly, the muzzle of his big revolver pointing at the floor. It wasn’t smoking.
The prosecutor half-turned to see United States Marshal Burdick standing thirty paces away, sideways, his long right arm extended at shoulder level, a big Navy Colt growing out of his hand and pointing at the drunk. A big man except when compared with such as the drunk and the bouncer, he still had his checked napkin thrust inside his high starched collar. His meal lay half-finished in a dish on the table beside which he stood. Black-powder smoke swirled about him and a thin stream of plaster was leaking from a hole in the ornate tin ceiling above his head. In a single, fluid motion he had drawn the revolver from beneath his coat, fired a shot in the air, and pulled down on the drunk while the latter was still bringing his own cumbersome weapon into play.
“Killing spoils my appetite,” he told the drunk calmly. “I’d be obliged if you’d hand that big Walker to Gedaliah there and then mount up and start riding. You can spit chew over the border from here.”
The man with the Walker Colt hesitated briefly, but Scout suspected this had more to do with sluggish reflexes than with defiance, for the six-shooter remained rock-steady in the marshal’s hand. Gedaliah, the bouncer, closed his fingers over the gun and it was relinquished readily. Only then did he release his grip on the drunk’s arm. The headwaiter, a fat Frenchman whose chins spilled over his boiled collar like too much dough in a small pan, brought him his hat. Glowering, he jammed the sweat-stained Stetson onto his head and set a tack for the front door, scarcely glancing at the table where he had left his stupefied companion, since deserted.
Scout, thanking the marshal, was the first to break the silence. Burdick waved it away with the barrel of his gun.
“I guess you lawyer fellows don’t get much practice with drunks outside the courtroom,” he said, returning the revolver to his left holster, butt forward.
The prosecutor ground his teeth at that. Despite the headwaiter’s protests that the meal was on the house, he paid for it and collected his coat and hat and Grace’s wrap. “Let’s go,” he said stiffly, holding the last garment for her.
“Would you like to finish the conversation elsewhere?” she asked on the way out. Many pairs of eyes followed them.
“Some other time.”
Chapter 3
M’CALL PROSECUTOR IN PUBLIC BRAWL
Patrons of a popular Yankton dining establishment were witnesses to a violent and drunken altercation between Julian Scout, the people’s representative in the forthcoming murder trial of Jack McCall, and an anonymous customer Monday night. Although details are not known at this time, observers relate that the scuffle erupted over a woman, and the United States Marshal Burdick was forced to separate the combatants. Both parties were then obliged to quit the premises.
Scout found the Daily Press and Dakotaian open and folded to the one-inch item in the lead column on page one, on the table reserved for the prosecution when he arrived at the Federal Court building Wednesday morning. Bartholomew, seated at the table in his best gray three-piece suit, kept his eyes on the empty judge’s bench while his partner read. They were alone in the oak-paneled room.
“Sons of bitches,” breathed the other, pushing the paper away. “They’ve made it sound like I was drunk too.”
“Had you been drinking?” The older attorney had drawn his snuff box from a pocket and was fingering it longingly. But some judges objected to the habit, and he preferred not to antagonize the bench this early in the proceedings.
“Two glasses of wine, Tessie! With a full meal! I told you all about it yesterday. Don’t tell me you believe these—these—” He snapped his hand at the folded newspaper.
“Calumnies,” Bartholomew finished. “I believe you, but I don’t count. The dozen men we choose today to hear our case, they’re the ones that count. How will we challenge them on it? Ask them if they read that piece about the people’s attorney brawling in public and if it would affect their decision? Damn it, Julian, I thought I’d taught you the importance of maintaining a low profile when you’re preparing a case.”
“What am I supposed to do, crawl into a hole until the jury reaches a verdict?”
The last part of Scout’s question was whispered. The bailiff had entered through the main doors at the head of a line of men in clothes of varying quality and was directing them to the spectator pews behind the attorneys. This was the group from which twelve would be selected to determine the trial’s outcome. Their shuffling footsteps echoed sibilantly in the rafters.
“Who do you suspect planted the story?” Bartholomew murmured.
“How should I know? It could have been anyone.” Scout drew his briefs from a scuffed leather case and began shuffling them industriously but with no apparent aim. “Newspapers these days have stringers everywhere.”
“I don’t think it was one of their regular stringers.”
Scout looked at him. “You’re talking like a lawyer. What are you trying to say?”
“You know as well as I do that just as many cases are won outside the courtroom as inside. What do you think?”
“You suspect Crandall?”
“Don’t look so incredulous.” He poked the snuff box into a vest pocket. “It wouldn’t be the first time a defense attorney tried for a change of venue by claiming press prejudice. Usually, though, they plant something that they can claim damages their own case. If this is his work, you’ve got to hand it to the General for originality.”
“If he did plant it, he’ll be counting on us to lodge the complaint.”
“The best confidence men let the mark make the offer.”
“In which case we don’t oblige him.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “We’ll stand the risk of pleading a prejudiced case. McCall won’t be tried a third time if we fail here. You see how he’s hemmed us in.”
“Are you advising me to move for a delay?”
“You’d be playing right into Crandall’s han
ds if you did.”
“Damn it, Tessie, as a partner you’re frustrating as hell.” Scout glowered at the papers in his hands. “No delays. It’s this one or nothing.”
The other didn’t appear to be listening. His gaze was directed toward the side door, where the court clerk, a tiny, balding man with fluffy white side whiskers, black folder in hand, was deep in conversation with a stout man scarcely taller, whose florid complexion and thick crop of soft gray hair evoked memories of Mr. Pickwick. Behind them, resignedly awaiting his turn at the doorway, towered a third party fully ten inches their superior. He was gaunt and hollow-cheeked and wore his black hair plastered to his skull on either side of a part the width of a pencil. Black-rimmed pince-nez straddled his fleshless nose, attached by a ribbon to the lapel of his swallowtail coat. His color was gray in contrast to the heavier man’s high flush.
“Of course, we can’t be sure that the General is the one responsible for the story,” remarked Bartholomew. “Why don’t you ask him?” He inclined his head toward Mr. Pickwick.
As if aware of the attention he was getting, the plump man broke off his discussion and came over to the prosecution table, moving gracefully in spite of his ungainly build. He wore a soft brown suit with a watch chain strung across the vest and a gold-mounted elk’s tooth for a fob. His face was round and he was smiling. It was a bright smile, and the teeth thus displayed appeared to be all his. His grip when he shook Scout’s hand was firm as expected. The prosecutor didn’t trust men with firm handshakes.
“An honor, counselor.” Crandall’s voice was deep and sonorous, his tones those of a trained orator. “Your defense of the 12th New Hampshire was a triumph of justice over barbarism.”
“Your reputation precedes you as well, counselor,” Scout murmured.
“General,” greeted Bartholomew, with a nod. His hands remained in his pockets.
Crandall studied him quizzically. “Have we met?”
“Not exactly. I’ve seen you work. I was in the gallery the first day of the Jordan trial.” He introduced himself. Crandall nodded.
“Bartholomew, of course. I should have guessed. I read in the Press and Dakotaian that you were assisting Scout. That was a sad case, Jordan’s. He was given twenty-five years, you know. But I at least saved him from the hangman.”
At mention of the Yankton newspaper, Bartholomew and Scout exchanged quick glances. But nothing in the defense attorney’s voice or manner indicated that he had had any personal dealings with the organ. While he was speaking, the gray-complexioned man with the pince-nez joined them. Crandall placed a paternal hand on his arm.
“Orville Gannon, gentlemen,” he announced. “He’ll be assisting me on this one.”
The newcomer regarded them each in turn with a cold blue eye. He made no effort to shake hands, which suited the prosecutor. Still, he studied Gannon with interest, for he had sensed a stiffening on Bartholomew’s part at the mention of the name. He saw nothing disturbing. If anything, the silent man seemed completely lacking in personality.
“Orville Gannon,” echoed Bartholomew thoughtfully. “This case fairly rings with familiar names.”
For a brief moment Crandall’s oily manner faltered. His brows rose. “I hadn’t realized you knew each other.”
“We’ve never met.”
The General’s mouth pursed on the verge of a question.
“Mr. Bartholomew and I opposed each other on an assault case some years ago.” Gannon’s voice was as cold as he seemed, with all the inflection of a humming rail. His eyes, magnified by the thick spectacles, were on Scout’s partner. “I was engaged by the plaintiff to head the prosecution, but I didn’t appear in court. Another attorney pleaded the case.”
“And now you’ve switched roles.” The senior defense counsel had regained his bluster. “What a strange profession we practice.”
There the conversation ended, and after a few moments during which all parties seemed to be casting about for something else to say—except Gannon, who remained evidently untouched by anything approaching emotion—McCall’s lawyers repaired to the defense table amid patently insincere tidings of good fortune.
“We certainly learned a lot from that confrontation,” Scout muttered, taking his seat beside his partner.
“What did you expect? Good actors make great lawyers.” He paused and seemed about to add something but for the interruption of the clerk, who announced Judge Blair.
The magistrate was taller than Scout, nearly as tall as Gannon, and even thinner. Far from concealing it, his voluminous black robes accentuated his gauntness, hanging in folds from his high narrow shoulders and rustling as he strode to the bench. His hair was fine and white and the bones of his face seemed to show through his taut flesh, which was blue almost to the point of translucence. His eyes were dark hollows beneath the bushy white overhang of his brows. He was clean-shaven, despite the fact that the thought of a razor scraping that fragile skin made Scout cringe.
After seating himself and cracking his waiting gavel to signal everyone else to do the same, Blair employed a mild witticism to put the potential jurors at their ease. Without waiting to see if it had worked, he greeted both counsels and requested them to proceed with their selection. His voice, though shallow in the face of advancing age, held a surprising resonance that carried to every corner.
The rest of the morning was spent scrutinizing the candidates, who were called one by one to the jury box to answer questions about themselves. Crandall, who was permitted more challenges in defense of his client, used them sparingly but with an expert hand, ruthlessly weeding out the undesirables. Scout challenged but once, when a candidate expressed the belief that no man accused of killing an ex-Union soldier could expect justice from a Yankee court. He had been about to disqualify another when Bartholomew stopped him.
“Stand pat,” whispered his partner. “Make him think you’re playing an unbeatable hand.”
“Seems like one hell of a risk,” Scout growled.
“That’s why it’s called gambling.”
The jury as selected consisted of John Treadway, Hiram A. Dunham, William Box, George Pike, Lewis Clark, West Negus, Charles Edwards, Isaac N. Esmay, Henry T. Mowry, Nelson Armstrong, James A. Withee, and Martin L. Winchell. When they had been dismissed and the judge was gathering his notes, Crandall and Gannon nodded to the prosecution team and departed through the main doors. The latter remained at their table after Blair had left, Scout putting away his briefs, Bartholomew, safe now, employing his snuff.
“What’s the story on this Orville Gannon?” asked the prosecutor. He had secured his briefcase and was scraping the bowl of his pipe with a pen knife.
His partner sneezed into a handkerchief. “He’s about your age, single, the end of a long line of attorneys in a family that goes back to Plymouth Rock. He practiced in Connecticut for a while, then came west in sixty-seven after the first strikes were made at the Sweetwater River in Wyoming to render his services to wronged miners. Since then he’s branched out. That’s as much as I know, except for the fact that he’s brilliant.”
“Is he as good as Crandall?”
“He’s better, but in a different area. He’s no orator. I doubt that he’s ever pleaded a case in court, or if he has it was only to confirm his suspicions that he was more effective working beyond the limelight. That brain of his is crammed with every statute and precedent drafted since the Constitution. When it comes to preparing a case for trial he has no master.”
Scout paused in the midst of lighting his pipe. “He worries you, doesn’t he? I saw how you reacted when Crandall introduced him.”
“Why not?” said the other. “He beat the pants off me in that assault case.”
The air in the rickety coach was murky with cigar smoke and lamp haze and night. In the inadequate light, the four men seated facing each other across a battered steamer trunk were forced to hold their cards two inches in front of their faces to read them. Two hours before, the faces’ owners had been st
rangers; soon they would be again. The game was the only thing they had in common.
Most of the money on the trunk was gathered in a disheveled heap in front of the drummer, a youngish man with a derby, a natty moustache, and a round, glistening face flushed with victory and the influence of a steel hip flask. When he raised the pot, the man at his left, a heavy-faced Indian whose scarred right cheek twitched with every other heartbeat, cursed in Spanish and threw down his cards. That left the drummer, a stout, gray-bearded land speculator from Pennsylvania, and the man called Smith. But for them the car was deserted.
“Let’s see your cards,” drawled the last. He had a faint southern accent.
The drummer squinted at him. Sitting upright across from him, Smith was clearly visible from the neck down, where the lamp’s greasy yellow glow fell across a well-cut suit wrinkled from being rolled up and carried behind the cantle of a saddle, and long hands with narrow fingers. From there up, only the highlights of a slim face were discernible.
“Let’s see your money,” the drummer replied. “Mr. Smith.” He employed the name as if it were a dubious title.
There was a brief silence, and then one of Smith’s hands disappeared. The drummer stiffened and reached for the bulldog pistol he carried behind his belt in the small of his back. When the hand returned with a fistful of bills he relaxed.
“Full house, queens high.” The drummer spread his cards on the trunk.
“That takes care of me,” sighed the speculator, folding his hand. Smith tossed down his own without a word.
The drummer was raking the pot into his upended derby, revealing a head of scanty copper-colored hair, when the conductor leaned in through the door connecting the cars.
“Sioux City, gents.”
“Just in time,” grinned the winner, rising. Cradling the hat lovingly, he pulled down his heavy sample case from the overhead rack, nodded to the others, and started down the aisle, weaving a little more than the car’s rocking demanded.
Aces & Eights Page 3
