The rotund defense attorney got up from his seat slowly, as if answering a summons he would rather ignore, and strode to the witness box, where he placed his hands on the oaken rail and leaned forward, so that the gold-dust weigher was forced to sit up straight to avoid physical contact. This brought his hands up from where they had been dangling between his knees and he was faced once again with the problem of what to do with them. While he was fumbling, Crandall asked his first question.
“Mr. Shingle.” He let the name hang there for a second, in the manner of a headmaster upbraiding an errant pupil. He sounded disappointed. “What are the dimensions of Saloon No. 10?”
Shingle’s brow furrowed. “I would say it’s about—”
“I didn’t ask you what it was about. I asked for the dimensions.” It came out harshly.
Scout considered objecting, but decided that it would serve no purpose. He wanted to see where the defender was heading.
“The room is twenty-four feet wide and twenty feet long. The bar is eight feet.”
“Thank you. How many people were in the room at the time of the shooting?”
“Eight, counting me and Harry Young, the bartender.”
“You mentioned that Hickok put down his shotgun when he joined the poker game. Did you notice if he was otherwise armed?”
The witness flashed a second nervous smile, in which the gold crown glinted. “Sure he was. That’s like asking the king of Russia if he ever gets cold.”
A guffaw went up from the gallery. Blair rapped for order.
Crandall’s good-natured chuckle didn’t reach his eyes. “What other weapons did he carry?”
“Well, he was packing them two ivory-handled Navies like always, stuck in a sash around his waist with the butts turned frontwise like for a cross draw, except he never crossed. He would twist his wrists to bring them out, like this.” He demonstrated by curling both hands inside the skirt of his coat and swiveling them outward, bringing a brace of imaginary revolvers into play. “And then there was the derringers everyone knew he toted, one in each side pocket of his coat. Oh, and there was a bowie knife too, but I can’t swear that he was wearing it that day.”
“That’s quite an arsenal. You said once that Hickok had at one time or another been an officer of the law. Was he acting in this capacity at the time of his death?”
Scout straightened. Why was Crandall pursuing a line he himself had objected to half an hour earlier?
“Well, sort of,” replied the witness.
“Sort of?” The General had half-turned away. Now he swung around to face him once again. “Mr. Shingle, how do you ‘sort of’ enforce the law?”
Perspiration glistened on Shingle’s rugged forehead. “Deadwood is a pretty new town. It don’t exactly have no regular marshal. Folks generally looked to Wild Bill if there was any lawing to be done.”
“Who appointed him to this position?”
“Well, no one, really. He just sort of started stepping in whenever there was trouble, him and his friends. Deputies, like.”
“I see. He just started calling himself marshal and anyone who disagreed had to take it up with his friends, is that it?”
“Your Honor, I object most strenuously!” Scout was up and seething.
“Sustained. In the future, General, you will save such conclusions for your summation.”
Crandall, still leaning on the rail before the witness box and staring at Shingle, appeared oblivious to the judge’s rebuke for some seconds. Gradually he relaxed and straightened. “What sort of man was Wild Bill Hickok with a gun, Mr. Shingle?” he asked calmly.
The witness sat back, on solid ground once again. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Crandall,” he said.
“They didn’t call him the Prince of Pistoleers for nothing.”
“Did you ever see him in action?”
“Oh sure, lots of times. Bill was fond of showing off. One time in Hays City I seen him place five shots through the hole of an O on a sign a hundred paces across the street, then do the shift and place five more on top of the first five. He done it in less time than it takes to tell it. I never seen a man who could beat him except maybe Colorado Charlie Utter, and I don’t believe Charlie ever had to shoot at a target that was shooting back, unless you count Indians and Johnny Rebs.”
“Tell me, Mr. Shingle, how many men have you personally seen Hickok kill?”
“Objection!” roared Scout, springing to his feet. “Counsel for the defense is casting aspersions on a man who can no longer speak for himself. Furthermore, his entire line of questioning is irrelevant.”
“Which is the only part of your objection that concerns us here,” Blair informed him sternly. “However, I’m inclined to let it continue. You may proceed, General, but take care.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Well, Mr. Shingle? Shall I repeat the question?”
“No, sir.” The gold-dust weigher had his handkerchief out and was mopping his face. “I only seen him kill one. It was in Hays City, when Jack Strawhan came gunning for him in Drum’s saloon. I don’t know why. Bill was county sheriff then, and was also filling in as city marshal. I was playing poker at a table in back. Bill was at the bar. Strawhan come in, seen Bill, and pulled out his pistol, but Bill beat him to it and shot him through the heart before he could squeeze off one round. I never seen anyone move as fast as Bill done that night.”
“Do you have personal knowledge of any other killings committed by Hickok?”
“I know of Bill killing three men, but all in self-defense. He was tried and acquitted all three times.”
“Then he had a reputation for speed and accuracy?”
“That’s right.”
Crandall had wandered away from the box and was now standing midway between it and the defense table with his back to Shingle. His hands were clasped behind his back and his eyes were on the opposite wall above the heads of the spectators. “Did you observe Hickok partake of alcoholic beverages the afternoon of his death?”
“Your Honor … !” complained the prosecutor.
“Is there a point to all this, General?” Blair asked.
“There is, Your Honor, if the court will bear with me a bit longer.” Crandall had not turned around.
“I’ve already given you more time than conscience dictates. However …” The judge’s voice trailed off.
The question was repeated. Shingle laughed shortly, but when there was no response from the gallery he resumed his customary grave expression. “If he wasn’t drinking, I’d have known that the man pretending to be Wild Bill was an imposter.”
“Why do you say that, Mr. Shingle?” The General was twirling the elk’s tooth attached to his watch.
“He was a constant drinker. Wherever there was liquor to be found, there was where you would find Wild Bill.” Hurriedly, as if he had divined suddenly where the interrogation was leading, he added, “But he was sober when this shooting occurred.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“As sure as I am of how many checks an ounce of gold dust is good for.”
Ponderously, Crandall turned to face the witness. When he spoke his voice shook the room.
“Mr. Shingle, are you suggesting that the man you knew as Wild Bill, an experienced killer with a speed and proficiency of firearms nearly unmatched in your experience, a man who valued his life so far as to prefer a seat against the wall with a view of both entrances, allowed his slayer to traverse twenty feet of open space in a nearly empty room, reverse directions, step up behind him, draw a revolver, announce his intentions with the words ‘Take that!’ and slam a bullet through his brain without raising so much as a finger to defend himself, even though he was stone cold sober and perfectly capable of doing so? Is that what you’re suggesting, Mr. Shingle?”
Shingle was caught flat-footed. He sat bolt upright, opening and closing his mouth and gripping the wooden arms of his chair with big, white-knuckled hands. With a detachedness born of disaster, Scout mused that he seemed
to have solved the problem of what to do with them.
“Bah!” Crandall exclaimed, casting the witness aside with a disgusted sweep of his arm. He stormed back to his seat.
“Redirect, Mr. Scout?” The judge’s query was all but drowned out beneath the buzz of voices that came on the heels of Crandall’s last question. He needn’t have bothered. The prosecutor was already up and moving, anxious to kill his opponent’s point before the jury had time to assimilate it.
“Deadwood is a wild, lawless place, Mr. Shingle.” He had stopped in front of the box, where Shingle was busy employing the sodden handkerchief he had yet to return to his pocket. “You must have seen quite a few shootings from your table in the saloon.”
“I seen my share.” The witness’ tone was suspicious. Whatever love he may have held for lawyers going into the courtroom had been dealt a fatal blow.
“In your opinion based on these observations and on what you saw on the afternoon of August second, did Wild Bill have a chance to defend himself against his assailant?”
“No, sir, he never did.”
“Thank you. I have no more questions.” Scout walked away.
Once dismissed, Shingle made for the exit as if bullets were splintering the floor at his heels.
“There’s one gold-dust weigher who will never see another shooting,” Bartholomew whispered gravely.
One of the items the court clerk had laid out on the judge’s bench was a big railroad watch of age-darkened gold, its face left open. Blair glanced at it.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, “it is only eleven-thirty. Rather than begin hearing new testimony, however, I suggest we break for lunch now. If there are no objections this court is adjourned until one o’clock.” There were none. The gavel banged.
After the judge had retired to his chambers, the jurors were escorted by the bailiff to their room down the hall, where their meals would be catered from the restaurant across the street. The defendant, who had sat motionless throughout the morning, staring at God knew what—that crossed eye was misleading—presented the same stony expression as he clanked out the side door flanked by two deputy U.S. marshals that he had on his way in. The gallery emptied somewhat more slowly, but within a few minutes the four lawyers were alone in the cavernous room. With a friendly nod to his opponents, the General gathered his papers into a brown leather portfolio and left, leaning backward slightly as he negotiated the center aisle to offset the forward pull of his paunch. Orville Gannon carried his briefcase out behind his partner without so much as a glance in the prosecutor’s direction.
Bartholomew and Scout collected their overcoats from the cloakroom and shrugged into them on their way down the broad staircase to the ground floor. They stopped on the first landing while the prosecutor charged his pipe and his partner contemplated the contents of his snuff box darkly. Shaking his head, the older attorney returned the box to his vest pocket without partaking. “You picked up some there at the end,” he said.
“Not enough,” growled Scout, around the pipe stem. They resumed the descent. “Were you watching the jury?”
“They had their eyes on Crandall most of the time, not a good sign. But it’s early yet. When they start watching the defendant we’ll know we’ve got them.”
“That clever bastard, Crandall. Is he going for self-defense or what?”
“Right now he’s just muddying the waters. Forget about him and concentrate on your case.”
They had reached the lobby, brisk from the passage of many bodies through the double doors that led to the street. Hundreds of slushy footprints decorated the rubber mat just inside the entrance, where a tall, middle-aged man in an old overcoat growing fuzzy at the elbows spotted the newcomers and strode forward, drawing a hand from his side pocket.
Scout stiffened, his mind flashing back to the near tragedy in the restaurant last week. But the hand that was extended him proved to be empty. He grasped it automatically and was astonished at the power in the man’s callused grip.
“Mr. Scout, I want you to know that there are folks who appreciate what it is you’re trying to do,” said the stranger.
The man’s baritone was surprisingly gentle for the iron in his grasp and the craggy features that showed beneath the broad, weather-beaten brim of his hat. There was something familiar about him that the prosecutor was at a loss to identify.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
The stranger laughed easily, showing tobacco-stained teeth behind a drooping brown moustache. “There I go again, forgetting to introduce myself,” he said. “We don’t get much chance to practice on the farm. I’m Lorenzo Hickok, Jim’s brother. I been watching the proceedings.”
Now Scout knew where he had seen him before, or rather his likeness. The hooked nose, gray eyes, and short chin were reminiscent of the rotogravures he had studied of James Butler Hickok. The features of both were dried and cracked from years of exposure to sun and wind, the latter’s while scouting for the army on horseback and toiling in the gold fields around Deadwood, the former’s while straining behind a plow on his mother’s Illinois farm. This one looked to be about forty-five, which would make him an older brother. The prosecutor understood now the sudden rush of panic that had seized him at the stranger’s approach; he had been reacting to the reputation of the other Hickok.
Scout introduced Bartholomew, who merely nodded, fiddling with his snuff box to avoid clasping hands. He had noted his partner’s wince earlier.
“Have you come to give testimony?” asked the prosecutor.
Lorenzo Hickok shook his head once, shortly. “I wouldn’t be much help. None of us has saw much of Jim since fifty-five, when he got in that fracas with Charley Hudson while they was working on the Illinois and Michigan canal and near killed him. He took off after that. Since then most of the news we got about him was what we seen in the papers and that Harper’s New Monthly piece that come out about ten year ago. We was all right proud of him when we read that. All except Ma. She never did approve of anything Jim done after he left the farm.
“Anyway, we didn’t hear he was dead until one of the neighbors showed it to my sister Celinda in the Chicago newspaper. She hid it in the kitchen and run down to the store to tell me and my brother Horace. When we got back, there was Ma in the kitchen rocker with the paper in her lap, rocking away. Blood all down the front of her dress. She’d hemorrhaged. She ain’t been the same since.” His face was taut. “This time I come to see justice done.”
“The state will do everything in its power to insure that it is,” Scout told him, after a pause.
“I know that. I seen you trying just now.”
“Don’t be taken in by what you saw, Mr. Hickok. That was just the opening round.”
Hickok said nothing at first. The expression in his gray eyes was right out of the pictures of his famous brother. “Well,” he announced then, “I want you to know that if you need anything you won’t have far to come. Us Hickoks stick together.”
After Scout had noted the farmer’s room number at a nearby hotel they stepped outside, where they parted on the top step. This time the prosecutor was prepared, and gave as good as he got during the final hand clasp. If it had any effect on Hickok, however, he didn’t show it. He boarded a jitney down the block and was off in a spray of water and slush. The snow was two inches deep on the ground and still falling in large wet flakes.
“Sinister sort,” said Bartholomew, adjusting his hat as he and Scout started across the street toward the restaurant.
“Wild Bill seems to have come by it honestly.”
Inside the dining establishment, which was a small place unlike the scene of the prosecutor’s recent adventure, the attorneys spotted Crandall and Gannon sharing a table in back and took refuge in a booth near the door. They had placed their orders when a boy in his late teens appeared at their table. He was wearing a gray uniform with brass buttons and carried an envelope.
“Mr. Scout?” He looked from one to the other.
<
br /> The prosecutor jumped at the question. He had been knocking his pipe against an ashtray at his elbow and had not observed the boy’s approach. “I’m Scout,” he said, after a moment.
“Your office said you’d be here if you weren’t in court.” The envelope was extended.
Scout tipped him and broke the seal. The telegram had been dispatched from St. Paul, Minnesota at eleven o’clock that morning, and read:
AM ON MY WAY YANKTON STOP WILL BE THERE TOMORROW STOP LOOKING FORWARD TO TESTIFYING ON BEHALF MY LATE FRIEND WILD BILL STOP MY PRAYERS WITH YOU UNTIL THEN
WILLIAM FREDERICK CODY
The prosecutor flipped the wire to Bartholomew, who read it and frowned thoughtfully.
“Everyone’s here but the Indians,” he said.
Chapter 6
The state’s second witness was Carl Mann, part owner of Saloon No. 10 and one of the men who had been playing poker with Hickok that fatal day. His testimony paralleled Shingle’s closely, differing only over the weapon used, which he identified as “a Navy-size revolver.” Scout hurried into his next question before the discrepancy, minor though it was, had a chance to sink into the jurors’ minds and confuse them.
“Mr. Mann, would you tell us about the poker game that took place in the saloon the night before Hickok’s death?”
Mann, heavy-set, ponderously moustached and balding, screwed up his face in thought. A wicked scar, years old, pulled down the outside corner of his left eyelid. When he spoke, his words came in short, nasty-sounding bursts that the prosecutor hoped wouldn’t prejudice the jury against his statement.
“Wild Bill was playing when Jack McCall came in,” he snapped. “McCall weighed out some gold dust to get some checks to play poker with Bill and others. McCall won twenty-three or twenty-four dollars, I’m not certain of the amount. He then went outdoors and came back and played again. Bill won and they came to the bar and asked me to weigh out twenty or twenty-five dollars. George Shingle had by this time gone home. Anyway, McCall’s purse was short. Bill said, ‘You owe me sixteen dollars and twenty-five cents.’ McCall said, ‘Yes,’ and went out. He came back shortly after and Bill said, ‘Did I break you?’ McCall said, ‘Yes.’ Bill then gave him all the change he had, seventy-five cents, to buy his supper with and told him that if he, Bill, quit winner in the game he was playing he would give McCall more. McCall would not take the money and went out in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Aces & Eights Page 5
