Aces & Eights

by Loren D. Estleman

  “He was philosophical about it. I would not go so far as to say he was not disappointed, but he had won and lost enough times to accept the caprices of fate.”

  “Did you gamble with him on any other occasion?”

  “It is one of the few diversions which life in the open spaces allows.”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  “I thought I had. Yes, I gambled with him many times.”

  “What sort of winner would you say he was?”

  “Objection,” said Scout. “This entire line of questioning is irrelevant.”

  Crandall turned to the bench. “I refer Your Honor to Carl Mann’s comments upon Hickok’s winning attitude at the poker table in Saloon No. 10.”

  “Objection overruled,” said Blair. “Proceed, General.”

  “Colonel Cody?”

  “I never knew Wild Bill to be anything but humble about his gains,” the witness replied.

  “I see.” The lawyer fiddled with his elk’s tooth. “Are you aware of what saloon owner Mann had to say upon the same subject in this court the day before yesterday?”

  “I read what the local newspaper reported,” said Cody, meeting his gaze. “Not knowing Mr. Mann, I will not call him a liar behind his back.”

  The gallery hummed. The judge allowed the noise to die out on its own.

  Crandall pushed on. “Colonel Cody, you told this court that you joined the Union Army shortly after your return from St. Louis, is that correct?”

  “I said that I joined the army. I don’t remember saying that it was shortly after my return.”

  “Oh, but you did. Would you like the recorder to read it?” He raised his eyebrows to the judge, who nodded to the man at the small desk. The recorder went back through his notes.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Cody. “I concede that I said it. But it was just an expression. It was three years before I joined the regular army.”

  “Why so long, Colonel?”

  “I was underage. My mother would not give her consent, as I was the sole support of my family. I consoled myself by acting as guide for various military and volunteer units.”

  Crandall strode over to the defense table and returned bearing a scrap of paper. “This article appeared in an eastern newspaper two years ago.” He handed it to the judge, who donned his glasses, skimmed the fine print, and gave it back. The General extended the clipping to Cody. “Do you remember making these statements?”

  The witness glanced at the item and smiled sheepishly. “I fear I do.”

  “Shall I read them?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Cody closed his eyes. “Asked how I spent my time when I was not guiding troops, I replied that for the most part I led a dissolute and reckless life. When I did join the army a few days before my eighteenth birthday, I had no idea of doing anything of the kind, but one day, after having been under the influence of bad whiskey, I awoke to find myself a soldier in the 7th Kansas. I did not remember how or when I had enlisted, but I saw I was in for it, and that it would not do for me to endeavor to back out.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” said Crandall, when the gallery had calmed down. “Now, which of your statements are we to assume is the truth? The one you made to the journalist who penned this article, or the one you made under oath a few moments ago?”

  Cody’s face was stony. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

  Scout closed his eyes and said, “Shit.”

  “The witness is instructed to answer the question,” said Blair.

  “Both are true. My mother would not allow me to join, and when I did I was not in full possession of my faculties.”

  “Very well,” said Crandall. “I ask you again: What sort of winner was Hickok?”

  Scout shot to his feet. “Objection! The witness has already answered that question. Counsel for the defense is badgering him!”

  “Sustained. The question will be stricken and the jury will disregard it.”

  The General looked serene. He had made his point. “We move on, Colonel. I confess that your account of the valiant rescue of General Penrose’s command during the winter of 1868 stirred me. I was disappointed, however, when you failed to finish it. Did you, once you had reached Penrose’s camp, accompany, with Hickok, an expedition to join Colonel A. W. Evans’ column coming east from New Mexico Territory?”

  Cody seemed to know what was coming. Cautiously, he replied in the affirmative.

  “And did you, when you were camped on the south fork of the Canadian River, learn that a Mexican wagon train was on its way to Evans’ supply depot with a cargo of beer?”

  “We did,” said the witness, and added hastily, “Before you continue—”

  “A simple yes or no will suffice, Colonel. Did you bribe the Mexicans into giving you the beer meant for the men of Evans’ command, then return to your own camp with the cargo and sell it by the cup at a profit?”

  Cody, his eyes smoldering, said nothing. A buzzing swept through the audience.

  “The witness is instructed to answer the question,” Blair pointed out.

  Crandall didn’t wait. Producing the newspaper dipping: “Did you, Colonel Cody, tell the journalist who penned this article, quote, ‘The result was one of the biggest beer jollifications I ever had the misfortune to attend’?”

  “It was war,” blurted the scout. “The winter was hard and spirits were low. The men needed something—”

  “—that you and Hickok were more than willing to supply for your own gain,” finished Crandall. “We all understand your motives, Colonel.”

  “Objection!” roared Scout. “Now counsel for the defense is drawing conclusions.”

  “Sustained. Have you learned nothing from your incarceration, General?”

  “I object to the bench upbraiding defense counsel with the jury present.”

  All eyes swung to the gaunt man who had risen from the defense table. These were the first words Orville Gannon had spoken in the courtroom since the trial had begun. He stood in the center of a shocked silence, as stiff and bland-looking as a welldressed scarecrow.

  “Overruled.” It had taken Judge Blair a moment to react.

  “Exception,” said Gannon.

  “Noted. Mr. Gannon, are you and General Crandall taking turns, like relay runners?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then please sit down. I won’t have two attorneys pleading the same case simultaneously.”

  Gannon sat.

  “They’re going at him from two sides,” whispered Bartholomew. “Keeping him off balance.”

  Scout, staring at the bench, acted as if he hadn’t heard. He was still seething over what the General was doing to his witness, or maybe it was Cody he was mad at. Bartholomew felt sorry for the frontiersman. An amusing anecdote of a wartime prank related for a reporter’s edification became something quite different in a court of law. Crandall’s instinct for material beneficial to his case was uncanny.

  “One more thing, Colonel, and then I’ll let you go.” The General sounded fatherly. “Tell us about your friend Wild Bill’s experiences while a member of your theatrical troupe.”

  Cody fidgeted, obviously wishing he had stayed in New York. “I spoke of that. He did not take to the profession and returned West before the tour was over.”

  “It’s been written about, Colonel. Shall I read some of the notices?” Crandall took a step toward the defense table, stacked high with papers.

  “No,” said the witness quickly. Then, inexplicably, he smiled. “No, General, I’d rather these good people heard it from me directly.”

  He sat back, in control of himself once again. There was a whisper of pages as the journalists in the front row turned to fresh sheets in their pocket pads. “I regretted having made the offer the moment Will Bill arrived at the Breevort Hotel in New York City and knocked down his driver for charging too much,” Cody began. “That was not the end of it by any means. The first time a spotlight was shone upon him he
hurled his pistol at it and shattered the glass. On stage during a performance, he spat out the cold tea which served for whiskey and demanded the real thing or he would ‘tell no stories,’ as he put it. While laying over in Titusville, Pennsylvania, he got into an altercation with a gang of oil-field roughnecks in a saloon and bludgeoned them with a chair. Finally, in Rochester, New York, he commanded a grip to ‘tell that long-haired son of a bitch’—meaning myself—‘that I have no more use for him or his damned show business,’ and deserted. No one was very sorry to find him gone.”

  The decorum of the courtroom dissolved in mirth. Blair, who had found himself smiling at the account, tried furiously for a few moments to regain control with his gavel and gave up. Scout let go an obscenity, making Bartholomew glad of the noise that drowned it out. When at length the din showed signs of subsiding, the judge employed his gavel again to maintain the illusion that he was on top of things, and asked the prosecutor in a loud voice if he cared to redirect. Scout rose, then seemed to think better of it and sank back down, shaking his head.

  “Your Honor, the state rests.”

  BOOK TWO

  THE DEFENSE

  Whenever you get into a row, be sure and not shoot too quick. I’ve known many a fellow slip up for shooting in a hurry.

  —James Butler Hickok, 1865

  Chapter 13

  The stranger’s card was a riot of scrollwork dominated by a darkly watchful eye, beneath which was printed “We never sleep” and around which skirled PINKERTON’S NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY in circus letters. The words “Calvin Lucy, Special Operative” were all but crowded off the bottom. Long fingers with clean nails displayed the card at the end of a slim arm in a black sleeve.

  The deputy on duty at the Sargent home studied the newcomer, taking in his trim form and long, tanned face with its carefully trimmed Van Dyke beneath a high silk hat that shone softly in the sunlight of late morning. “Got any other identification?”

  “Here is my badge and a letter of introduction from the man who engaged me.”

  The badge, an impressive gold shield, made similar use of the all-seeing eye, and the letter, with the unfamiliar name Orville Gannon scratched across the bottom, looked official. The embossed letterhead read

  “General J. Q. A. Crandall,” a name the deputy did recognize from the paper. But he was still suspicious. Perhaps it was the stranger’s slight southern accent; he himself had fought the war on the winning side.

  “You don’t look like no Pinkerton I ever seen.”

  “The fact disturbs me more than words can relate.” The man identified as Lucy appeared patient. His breath formed vapors in the frosty air of the porch.

  “Marshal Burdick said not to let anyone in till he gets back.”

  The letter was folded and put away with the badge in the other’s inside breast pocket. “How much experience have you had protecting your fellow citizens from attack?”

  “I’ve guarded prisoners plenty of times. Anyway, what business is it of yours?”

  “It’s hardly the same. I’ll wager you’ve had none.” His gray eyes swept over the brick front of the jail-like structure. “This is a large building. I imagine it has several entrances. How will you watch them all?”

  “There’s another man in back.” The deputy thrust out a black-bearded jaw. The gesture made him look older, almost thirty.

  “I suppose he’s stationed outside as well. There should be a man in the house.”

  “You, I suppose.”

  The stranger said nothing.

  “Just how much do you know about protecting folks?”

  “I helped spare the President from an assassin’s bullet last year.”

  “Go to hell! I never heard about it.”

  “You weren’t meant to. Will you let me pass, or shall I make contact with your superior? I warn you that every moment of delay increases the danger to the ladies.”

  The deputy fingered his Winchester and frowned. Decisions bothered him. He much preferred to follow clear orders. Still, the man seemed to know something he didn’t, and he hated to think what would happen if he turned him away and something went wrong. Marshaling suited him better than robbing express offices. “I got to frisk you for weapons.”

  The stranger looked at him pitifully. “Of what earthly use is an unarmed bodyguard?”

  “We’ll talk about that when the marshal comes. Get ’em up.”

  Sighing, the man called Lucy lifted his arms while the other patted him down expertly. He didn’t stop when he came up with a .38 caliber Remington from a special holster sewn inside the man’s vest, but continued all the way down, taking special care with his dyed black calfskin boots, in which a derringer or a knife could be concealed. As an afterthought he removed the silk hat and felt the lining inside. There were no other weapons.

  “All right, you can go in.” He thrust the confiscated revolver under his belt.

  “Don’t I get a receipt?”

  “I won’t sell it while you’re inside, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the deputy snapped.

  The Pinkerton card got the stranger past the maid and into the parlor, where Grace Sargent met him. Her mother was on the settee with a book open in her lap. She nodded at his greeting.

  “Your firm has an honorable reputation,” said Grace, after amenities had been exchanged. “However, I feel the authorities are doing an admirable job. Forgive me, but your presence seems superfluous.”

  He smiled easily. He had surrendered his hat to the maid and the lamplight cast blue halos off his wavy hair. “With all due respect to Marshal Burdick’s deputies, ma’am, they are at their best when apprehending felons and preventing their escape. Personal security is a Pinkerton specialty.”

  “Did Mr. Scout engage your services?”

  “Our client is General Crandall, the counsel for the defense in the McCall trial.” Noting the expression that crossed the women’s faces, he added hastily, “While it may be uncommon for an attorney to arrange for the protection of his opponent’s acquaintances, it is not unheard of. The General wishes to avoid prejudicing his case. If you’d prefer, I can send for Mr. Scout.”

  “Mother?” Grace looked to the older woman on the settee.

  “It’s your house, dear,” said Mrs. Hope coolly.

  Her daughter made a decision and nodded. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Lucy. Julian is in court and should not be disturbed. How can we help?”

  “Could you gather the household in this room for a few moments? Just so I’ll know a strange face should I see one later.”

  There were five servants, including the housekeeper, two maids, the cook, and a handyman. They arranged themselves in front of the Pinkerton, the cook wiping her large black hands impatiently on her apron. She smelled of baking bread.

  “Is this the entire staff?” he asked incredulously.

  Grace nodded. “We had a butler, but Mother let him go and engaged Mrs. Hurley as housekeeper in his place. His salary demands were exorbitant.”

  “Five people can manage a house twice this size,” Mrs. Hope explained. “Keeping more servants than one needs is an unholy waste of funds.”

  “Does any of them own a firearm?”

  “No,” said Grace, but the handyman, a wizened little Greek with oily black hair and a limp moustache, raised a tentative hand. The Pinkerton riveted on him.

  “Is it on the premises?” The Greek nodded. “Please get it.”

  The handyman withdrew, to return moments later bearing a well-used Colt pocket revolver, .31 caliber, with an octagonal barrel and a stagecoach holdup engraved on the cylinder, worn nearly all the way off. All five chambers were loaded and the caps were in place.

  “It will have to do,” said the Pinkerton, examining the museum piece. “I must say, the size of the household made me wonder if I’d be even this fortunate. But there’s always one to be found.” Smiling thinly, he cocked it and pointed the muzzle at the astonished group in front of him. “You will all remain w
here you are until I instruct you otherwise.”

  The cook began to whimper. The maids kept silent, but one of them, the white one from upstairs, was quivering uncontrollably. The handyman, evidently blaming himself for this turn of events, looked shamefaced. The housekeeper looked affronted. Dora Hope was pale but composed, grasping her daughter’s hand resting on her shoulder. Grace was the first to recover from the shock.

  “What happened to the real Calvin Lucy?” she demanded. “It’s obvious you’re no Pinkerton agent.”

  “He’s been detained until Judgment Day. You will all remain silent.” There was now no trace of cordiality in the gunman’s tone.

  As though enjoying the attention it was getting, the clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes loudly. Even the cook was quiet, though her lips continued to move, mouthing a prayer under her breath. The wind had come up and from time to time a bare branch scrabbled across the windowpanes. Grace lost patience.

  “What are we waiting for? Who are you?”

  “I won’t ask for silence twice.” The way he said it, with the antiquated but deadly looking revolver clasped rock-steady in his hand, brought a breath of winter chill into the heated room.

  After what seemed an hour, but which when Grace stole a glance at the clock turned out to be no more than fifteen minutes, three knocks sounded clearly from the rear of the house. There was a pause, followed by two more raps.

  “Over here, Mrs. Sargent.” The bogus detective beckoned with the revolver. “We’ll answer it together.”

  She hesitated. Mrs. Hope tightened her grip on her hand.

  “I’ll kill someone,” he said. “It might as well be your mother.”

  Grace said, “You won’t shoot. It would bring the deputies.”

  “I am a desperate man, Mrs. Sargent. Do you know me well enough to take that chance?”

  She considered it. He shrugged and tightened his finger on the trigger. She patted her mother’s hand and came over to him.

  “Ladies first,” he said, indicating the curtained doorway. To the others, “If anyone opens his mouth or moves from this room I’ll blow out her heart.”