It’s this house, she thought. If she could get Mother to leave it, she was certain that in time she would come to accept what had happened to Edgar and abandon her sinister hobby. But none of the prospective buyers would meet Mother’s price, and she was determined not to let it go for anything less than it was worth. This stubbornness was pure Dora Hope, a holdover from the days when she had to make every penny count, and had nothing to do with her mental disturbance. But the house was killing her.
Short of finding a buyer, the only thing that would tear Mother away from that mausoleum was if Julian married Grace and she came to live with them. She was fiercely protective, and since her maternal instincts were stronger than her parsimony, her daughter felt sure that she would leave the mansion without a qualm if separation was the alternative. That was why Grace had been so disappointed the other night when the inebriate had interrupted just as Julian seemed about to propose.
Or was that the reason? True, the attorney held a strong attraction for her, but then she had felt just as strongly about Edgar, and that had not been a good marriage. In fact, she had been contemplating divorce at the time of his death. Love was something she had yet to experience, if indeed it existed at all. But if she didn’t love Julian, why was she using her mother’s welfare as an excuse to marry him, when she could accomplish the same thing simply by moving out, knowing that Mother would follow whether she had a husband or not? She sighed, disgusted with herself. At thirty she was no more sure of her emotions than she had been at sixteen.
She paused before donning her nightgown to regard her reflection in the mirror atop the bureau. She was attractive if not quite beautiful, and her figure was as appealing naked as it was when bedecked in the whalebone and steel contraptions women employed in search of social acceptance. Her breasts were full and her waist was tiny without artificial aid, and if her shoulders seemed a bit too square, they were balanced by the swell of her hips. Her thighs, plump and round the way men seemed to prefer them (judging by the glimpse she had once got of a painted nude as she was passing a saloon), tapered to well-shaped calves and trim ankles and small, perfect feet. The freckles on her face and breasts were something she had learned to live with. Yes, she decided as she slipped the nightgown on over her head, Julian would get around to proposing yet. And she knew what her answer would be.
As she crawled shivering beneath the counterpane—she kept no fire in her room—Grace was prepared for a long wait before falling asleep. She wasn’t accustomed to retiring this early. Scarcely had she turned down her bedside lamp and turned over, however, before she felt herself drifting off. Her last conscious thought was that soul-searching appeared to be an excellent cure for insomnia.
The man watching from a doorway across the street waited a full five minutes after he had seen the light go off in the second-story window before moving. Huddled there with his hat pulled low and his collar turned up against the icy wind, he had felt his pulse quicken as Grace Sargent’s shadow fell across the lattice. He had wanted her right then, but with the servants and the old lady, there were too many in the house. The trial had just started and there would be other nights.
Fearing that he had been spotted, he had been alarmed earlier when Julian Scout had shown up at the house accompanied by one of Marshal Burdick’s deputies, but when both left together it was evident that the prosecutor was the one being protected and not his woman. The watcher suspected that the message his partner had had him deliver was responsible for that. He made a mental note to remember to call him Smith whenever anyone else was within earshot.
When he was certain that she had gone to bed and was not gazing out the window the way women sometimes did, he left the shelter of the doorway and started for home and a drink. Jesus, but it was cold.
Flames gulped greedily at the logs in the grate, driving the chill dampness from the office shared by the prosecution team. Disgusted with sluggish bureaucracy, Scout and Bartholomew had chipped in to have the flue repaired, and now the chimney was drawing like sixty for the first time in two years. Scout, in shirtsleeves and vest, used the tongs to extract a glowing ember and lit his pipe.
“Where is justice when a roomful of eyewitnesses can’t convict a man of cold-blooded murder?” he snarled, flinging the ember back into the hearth. “If this were New York, McCall would have dropped through the trap weeks ago.”
At his desk, Bartholomew was unstrapping the briefcase he seldom carried, a handsome one of black leather with gold corners. “You just answered your own question,” he said. “Death by violence is nothing unusual out here, and so it must be broken down into categories before justice can take over. I didn’t think I had to tell you that.”
“All the same, I’d feel better if we could put a handle on Crandall’s case.”
“That was obvious from the minute Blair struck down his motion for acquittal on the grounds of double jeopardy. In order to build up McCall’s character, he’ll have to tear down Hickok’s.” From the briefcase he extracted a voluminous stack of yellowed newspaper clippings and bound periodicals, which he deposited atop the freshly cleared desk with a resounding thud. Curls of dust issued from between the pages.
“What’s all that?” Scout asked, approaching the pile.
“Our case.” The older attorney picked up the top item, a bound volume half an inch thick, and tossed it to his partner, who clapped it to his chest with both hands.
It was a copy of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine for February 1867. Scout donned his reading glasses and opened it to the frontispiece, a full-length engraving of a long-haired man in frontier garb, one hand resting on the butt of a side arm strapped around his knee-length coat. It was captioned: WILD BILL. Scout flipped through the pages, stopping to read here and there. One passage read:
There was a few seconds of that awful stillness, and then there was a dead silence. I put down the rifle and took the revolver, and said to myself: “Only six shots and nine men to kill. Save your powder, Bill, for the death-hug’s a-comin’ !”
The text was sprinkled with illustrations: Wild Bill defending himself with a bowie knife against a roomful of ruffians; Wild Bill on horseback, swimming a river to escape a regiment of Confederate soldiers; Wild Bill calmly allowing himself to be “put upon” at a game of poker; Wild Bill wheeling to point his six-shooter at a cowering group of desperadoes after killing their friend in an armed face-off in the street. The prosecutor looked up at his partner with a pained expression.
“This is a whitewash!”
“So is all this,” agreed the other, indicating the rest of the material on the desk. “Except for some diatribes against him, which are just as naive. I’ve been gathering the stuff ever since you were assigned to the case. I’d never realized how much had been written about Hickok until I started.”
“We can’t use this! Crandall will tear it apart!”
“Most of it, yes. But some of it’s bound to stick. We’ll keep him so busy attacking Wild Bill he won’t have time to defend his client.”
“You’re the one who’s always saying that it’s the prosecutor’s job to simplify, not complicate.”
“It’s Hickok versus McCall. What could be simpler?”
Scout sucked noisily on his pipe, thinking fiercely. “What makes you think Blair will allow it?”
“He already has. He opened the door today when he let the General question Carl Mann about that ‘overbearing’ comment.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Julian, do you want to win this case?”
“Objection,” Scout said, smiling slowly. “Leading the witness.”
Bartholomew returned the smile, then flicked a finger at the periodical in his partner’s hands. “Who gets the armchair tonight?”
In the corridor outside the office, the man wearing a deputy’s star smoked and watched the staircase leading up from the floor below.
Chapter 8
Bartholomew groaned when he spotted the man he had come to meet at the station the next morning.
In the crowd on the platform he stood out, tall, well built, the famous dark brown tresses cascading over his shoulders, his clean profile set off by a modest handlebar and a spray of chin whiskers adding purpose to a jaw that had been sturdy to begin with. At thirty he was already an impressive figure, but the effect was spoiled by the flamboyance of his dress. A shirt of bleached doeskin with a fringed hem hung skirtlike below his knees, decorated with intricate beadwork and cinched at the waist by a belt with a big square buckle. A gold band encircled the tall crown of his white Stetson. In spite of the freezing weather he had his coat, a fine one of chamois leather with a fur lining, folded over one forearm as if he thought wearing it might detract from his costume. The outfit was designed to impress gullible Easterners and the kind of people that hung around railroad stations waiting to see who had come in on the train. When the time came to testify, Bartholomew knew that such gaucherie would elicit only contempt from the jury box. The man was a walking lethal cross-examination.
“Cody!” hailed the attorney, waving. “Colonel Cody!”
William Frederick Cody—Buffalo Bill—was busy describing for a knot of admirers the battle of Rawhide Creek, in which he had slain the Cheyenne subchief, Yellow Hand, and captured his warbonnet and scalp last July. Already a household name at the time of the encounter, Cody had since turned his fresh notoriety into a series of profitable personal appearances back East and was preparing a drama that would employ the headdress and cured trophy as props. He looked up in irritation as his name was called.
“Mr. Scout?”
“Bartholomew,” corrected the other, accepting the great man’s handshake. His grip was strong and his palm callused despite the manicure. “This is a very great honor indeed.”
Cody waved aside the compliment with an expansive gesture, but the attorney noted a gleam he had seen in women’s eyes when acknowledging a flattery.
“A thousand miles is a small price to pay to avenge a friend.” The reply was delivered with an easy, rumbling cadence that made Bartholomew suspect that it had been rehearsed on board the train. He was suddenly aware that everyone on the platform was watching them, and for the first time since his initial court appearance thirty years ago he felt embarrassed.
“I’ve a cab waiting at the end of the platform,” he said hastily. “Are those your bags?” He lunged for the handle of an expensive valise standing beside a carpetbag at the famous scout’s patent-leather feet.
“The porter will take care of them.” Flipping what looked like a five-dollar gold piece to a black man in uniform, Cody struck out in the direction indicated by the attorney, unraveling the crowd as he went. Bartholomew noticed that most of those who hastened to keep up with him were men scribbling in dog-eared notepads with stubby pencils. Reporters, thought the attorney darkly. Neither he nor Scout had notified the press of Cody’s anticipated arrival. The damned popinjay must have wired the newspapers at the same time he wired Scout.
His account of the battle finished by the time they reached the cab, Buffalo Bill ignored the journalists’ further questions while his luggage was being loaded into the compartment. Gratefully, Bartholomew reflected that neither of the bags was large enough to accommodate any more theatrical getups without risk of damage.
“That’s all, gentlemen,” announced Cody as the wheels began to roll. “Any further statements concerning my friendship with Wild Bill will be made under oath.”
Bartholomew gave the driver the name of the hotel where Cody told him he had a reservation, and settled back into the cold leather seat. He thought about snuff but decided against it. Lately he wondered how he had acquired the habit when the opportunity to partake presented itself so rarely. He supposed that he was getting respectable in his old age.
“Bracer, Mr. Bartholomew?”
The attorney blinked at the hammered silver flask thrust beneath his nose. The odor of whiskey stung his nostrils. Caught by surprise, he shook his head. Cody shrugged, withdrew the vessel, and put it to his own lips, tipping it expertly.
“That takes the place of a good overcoat anytime,” he said, touching his lips with the back of his hand. He helped himself to a second, shorter swig and returned it, corked, to the pocket of the coat draped across his lap. Bartholomew agreed that it had its merits and helped himself to a healthy pinch of snuff.
“Your decision to testify was a most pleasant surprise, Colonel Cody.” He carefully avoided phrasing it as a question, conscious of how much that would make him sound like one of the reporters they had just left.
He anticipated a bombastic reply typical of the star of “Scouts of the Prairie,” but was moved when the great man said quietly, “I was well into my eastern tour when I learned of Will Bill’s murder. The weight upon my heart has been heavy enough of late without adding the burden of a friend unavenged.”
As he spoke, Cody watched Yankton roll past the cab, either not caring or unwilling to meet the attorney’s gaze. Bartholomew knew that Cody’s six-year-old son had succumbed to scarlet fever last spring. He found himself wondering about this man who a scant eleven years ago had been a Union private still in his teens, but who had since been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for valor under fire, hunted buffalo for the Union Pacific, become the hero of a line of penny dreadfuls drafted by Edward Z. C. Judson under the pen name of Ned Buntline, appeared in a blushingly laudatory drama about his life on the plains, and still found time to scout for the army, fight Indians, and escort Russia’s Grand Duke Alexis on a State Department-sponsored “safari” in quest of buffalo. In his time the attorney had defended men who would literally have eaten one such as this for breakfast; yet he fascinated him. The man’s personality was overwhelming. Bartholomew couldn’t help thinking what a politician he’d make.
“When do I appear?” Cody was looking at him.
The attorney realized that he had been staring at his companion. He sneezed into his handkerchief. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, wiping his nose. “Just before the state rests its case.”
“Won’t that be rather late?”
“The timing should be perfect. Julian—Mr. Scout—and I were up until dawn researching what’s been written about your friendship with Hickok, and we’ve come to the conclusion that you are the one most qualified to testify concerning his character.”
“What about his widow? I’m told he married shortly before his death.”
“He and Agnes Thatcher Lake were wed only two weeks when he left to seek his fortune in Deadwood. She knows rather less about him than the average reader of dime novels back East.” He stopped short, remembering Ned Buntline.
Cody was unoffended. He sat back, blowing out his moustache thoughtfully. “I seem to be the man upon whom the entire case stands or falls.”
Bartholomew steered a cautious course through that one. “McCall’s lawyer is a crafty old warhorse. We aren’t sparing the artillery.”
“I am not a man of words, but of action,” said the other, his pomposity returning. “Nevertheless you may assure your partner that with his guidance—and yours—I shall do everything in my power to see that justice prevails.”
His pledge was so much like Scout’s promise to Hickok’s brother that the attorney could think of nothing to say in response. They rode for some time after that in silence, Cody studying Yankton’s bleak winter-clad scenery, Bartholomew weighing his companion’s words to determine how much was truth and how much idle fustian. He decided to take a chance.
“Colonel Cody,” he began uneasily, “about your clothes …”
The jury was out of the room when Bartholomew returned to court, having seen Buffalo Bill safely to his quarters. Both Scout and Crandall were at the bench, gesturing agitatedly, their voices an angry murmur. The gallery was silent, straining to hear what was being said. Orville Gannon, writing at the defense table, appeared oblivious to everything, while the defendant sat staring stoically at the floor between the table and the bench. There was no one on the stand.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Blair was saying, his voice ragged with tension, “this bickering will accomplish nothing. As for you, General, your language has brought you as close to a contempt-of-court citation as you are ever likely to come and remain free. Your objection is overruled. The publication introduced by the state will be introduced as evidence relating to the deceased’s character.”
“Your Honor, I request an exception.” Crandall’s tone was hot.
“It will be noted.”
“Since the bench is determined to go through with this, I must also request a recess until tomorrow morning to allow Mr. Gannon and myself time to prepare a rebuttal to Mr. Scout’s—evidence.”
“Have you the material necessary for such a rebuttal?”
“We have, Your Honor. In my office.”
“Where is your office, counselor?”
“Just around the corner, Your Honor, two flights up from the street.”
“In that case you have twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes! Your Honor, that is hardly enough—”
“General Crandall.” Blair sounded grim. “I am familiar with your record as an attorney and with your tactics, and I remind you that this court’s case load will not permit any unnecessary delays. You have twenty minutes. Make the most of them.” The gavel cracked like a pistol shot.
“What happened?” Bartholomew whispered, when he and Scout had regained their seats. No one else had left his, except for the judge, who had withdrawn to his chambers, and Crandall, who had stalked out ostensibly in quest of the aforementioned material. Gannon continued writing.
“Nothing we didn’t expect,” replied the prosecutor, sounding as if he had been enjoying himself. “After that jailer Robinson testified on McCall’s November escape attempt I whipped out that copy of Harper’s and Crandall raised hell. I argued that McCall’s defense had questioned Hickok’s character and that I was merely using a national journal to rebut. Crandall said that it was not a sworn document. I responded that the state would produce a witness later who would confirm the essentials. When Blair ordered the jury withdrawn to let us slug it out I knew we had him. Once you peel away that smooth veneer, the General’s temper is uncontrollable. I played on that.”
Aces & Eights Page 7
