To Grace, who had not made it in some time, the journey from the parlor to the back door was longer than she remembered. The air in the kitchen was hazy with smoke; instinctively she took a step toward the stove, in the oven of which a loaf of bread was shriveling slowly. The revolver dug into her back. “Let it burn.”
She stopped before the door leading outside, awaiting instructions.
“Answer it,” he commanded. “Just in case. Think of the person on the other side before you decide to try something.” He moved over to the wall.
Unlocking and opening the door, she caught her breath to scream, but was cut off when the false detective’s hand closed over her mouth from behind.
The man standing on the back porch was thickset and slightly stooped, with a round face and vicious little eyes crowded together just under the brim of his derby. A frayed overcoat badly in need of brushing hung below his knees. The open clasp knife in his left hand glistened red. When he saw the man who had called himself Lucy he relaxed his stance and wiped the blade clean with a yellow handkerchief.
“Get in here,” snarled the man holding Grace. “You look like a maniac.”
Not until the man was inside and the door was locked did he release his grip. Grace was left with a faint scent of toilet water in her nostrils from his hand. “Did you have to kill him?” he demanded. He was quivering with rage.
“No, I figured I’d ask him to leave, but he didn’t take to the idea.” The man’s voice was an insinuating whisper. She suspected that this was its normal tone. “Don’t worry, I drug him behind a hedge and covered him with snow. They won’t find him on their own before the next thaw. You get the other one?”
“You fool, don’t you see you’ve ruined everything?”
“I’m here, ain’t I? Listen, Johnny—”
“Shut up, up idiot!” It came out like a lash.
The newcomer remained uncowed. His eyes lit on Grace and lingered, moving her to clasp her throat. She felt as if he could see through her clothes. “This her? Why don’t we just grab her and go?”
“The plan was to hold her here. Put away that pigsticker and give me your pistol.”
“Why?” He looked suspicious.
The one called Johnny showed him the revolver he had captured. “You’re used to using a cap and ball. I’m not.”
His partner pocketed the closed knife and handed him a .44 caliber Smith & Wesson from his belt in return for the old Colt. Then they returned to the parlor, Grace walking in front.
“Keep them covered while I see to the other deputy,” said the false Pinkerton.
“You sure you don’t want to hire someone else to do it for you?” sneered the other.
His partner looked at him sadly. “You stupid fool. Now we’ll have to kill them all.”
The cook swooned onto the settee.
The young deputy on the veranda turned at the sound of the door opening behind him. He recognized the Pinkerton. “Leaving so soon?”
“I have to wire the home office for instructions.” He adjusted his hat, which he had retrieved from the peg beside the door, and removed a long cigar from inside his coat. “Have you a match?”
The deputy cradled his Winchester in the crook of his left arm and dug one out. Striking it on a porch post, he cupped the flame and held it to the end of the detective’s cigar. Suddenly something rigid prodded his stomach. He looked down at the revolver.
“It’s much warmer inside,” suggested the Pinkerton gently.
Chapter 14
Though he tried to look dapper, the witness’ blocky five-foot-nine frame lent him the look of a bartender in his black coat and vest and striped trousers. He had a round face and mild eyes inclined to twinkle and a well-kept handlebar, all of which added to the impression, but as he approached the stand and laid an incongruously slender hand atop the Bible proffered by the bailiff, the quickness of his movements gave him away. Ben Thompson—English born, Texas raised, former saloon owner and future Texas Ranger and Austin city marshal—had killed a score of men and would add twelve more to the list before his own death in an ambush by hired assassins in 1884. Asked his occupation, he answered, “Businessman.”
General Crandall leaned back against the defense table with his ankles crossed and his hands folded upon his paunch and waited patiently for the excitement triggered by the infamous killer’s appearance to die down. He noted that the jurors, who had settled back in their seats after Buffalo Bill’s cross-examination, were upright once more, eyes alert and trained on the witness to a man.
At the other table, Julian Scout sat so that he could observe both Crandall and Thompson without turning his head. He looked fresh despite the General’s expert negation of his star witness’ testimony. He was a better lawyer than he thought himself, Crandall suspected, glad to be facing him before he had a chance to find out how good he was. Bartholomew, the one to watch, looked half asleep, head propped up on his palm and gazing at nothing in particular. None of this damned obsessive taking of notes for either of them, the General thought, eyeing his own partner cramped over a fresh sheet already half filled with shorthand scribble. Since Gannon never bothered to translate the symbols for his benefit, the defender theorized that he was preparing his autobiography.
The room was quiet and all eyes, except for Bartholomew’s and Gannon’s, were on him. He let his own gaze drift over to engage Thompson’s.
“Mr. Thompson, you were part owner of a saloon in Abilene, Kansas, in 1871, were you not?”
“I was.” His speech betrayed nothing of his Yorkshire origins. Contrary to the popular conception of the close-mouthed killer, the reply was anything but sullen; seated with his legs crossed, eyes crinkled to reveal deep laugh lines at the corners, Thompson seemed about to relate an off-color joke. The gallery felt cheated. Crandall sensed this reaction and dismissed it as unimportant.
“That was during James Butler Hickok’s term as marshal of that city?”
“It was.”
“Was the name of the saloon in which you held part interest the Bull’s Head?”
“That’s right.”
“Was your partner Phil Coe?”
“Yes, sir.” His use of the term “sir” was not a sign of subservience, but was merely a gesture of politeness. Calm reserve masked the inner man from the jovial pose like a steel shield.
“The same Phil Coe killed by Hickok on October 5, 1871, as Mr. Scout pointed out to this assembly yesterday?”
“Hickok killed him, right enough.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Now, in your capacity as Coe’s partner, did you ever find occasion to enter into dealings with Marshal Hickok?”
“Almost daily.”
“Would you describe for this court the nature of said dealings?”
“Each morning Hickok would present himself at the door of the Bull’s Head and receive a poke containing a percentage of the house’s profits from the previous night’s gambling activities.”
Scout was up in an instant, but the room was already humming. “Objection! Your Honor, the defense has brought forth not one scrap of evidence to substantiate this calumny.”
Crandall presented him with a deadpan. “With my colleague’s permission, I will signal when releasing this witness for cross-examination.”
Blair said, “He’s right, counselor. Objection overruled.”
Crandall continued. “To your knowledge, Mr. Thompson, was this common practice among the marshals of Abilene?”
“I can’t say from firsthand experience whether it was or wasn’t,” said the witness. “But that is the way things stood when Phil and me struck a partnership. I am told that Tom Smith, Hickok’s predecessor and the town’s first law, was not in that habit.”
“Objection. Hearsay.” This time the prosecutor kept his seat. Blair sustained it.
“Was the Bull’s Head the only establishment which subscribed to this … arrangement?”
“No. Hickok regularly collected a cut of the winnings from e
very gambling emporium in Abilene, of which there were considerable, it being a cowtown.”
“He received this in addition to his salary as marshal?”
“Yes, as well as fifty percent of all fines collected within the city limits.”
Crandall raised his expressive eyebrows. “I never realized enforcing the law could be so profitable.” He glimpsed Scout rising and said, “I withdraw that remark, Your Honor. I’m afraid my emotions got the better of me.”
“I quite understand your motives, General,” the judge responded dryly. “More than you suspect.”
The prosecutor sat down, knuckles whitening as he clutched the edge of the table. His opponent had stolen a march on him and left him powerless to combat it.
“At what point, Mr. Thompson,” resumed Crandall, “did Coe and Hickok become enemies?”
“I would not say that they were ever friends,” Thompson said. “But the final break came when upon my advice Phil refused to pay the marshal one more penny for protection.”
“Protection? Protection from what?”
The witness smiled coldly. “Hickok was always vague on that point. When challenged he would sometimes make reference to fires, other times to the possibility of closing down the establishment for ordinance violations. The way he said it, you could take it two ways. But you didn’t.”
“Assumption and conjecture!” Scout shouted.
“Sustained. Control yourself, Mr. Scout. This is not a public auction.” Blair had the response stricken and instructed the jury to disregard it.
Crandall, still leaning against his table, was unperturbed. “What was Marshal Hickok’s reaction when told he could expect no more money from the Bull’s Head?”
“He turned white. The saloon hadn’t opened yet. Hickok and Phil were in front of the bar and I was behind it. I thought he might draw then and there, and laid on top of the bar a sawed-off shotgun I had been holding. He looked from it to me, saw that I was prepared to use it if necessary, and relaxed. Then he said something indelicate and went out. The next day he came in with an order to close down the saloon.”
“What reason did he cite for this maneuver?”
“He claimed that our sign violated the ordinance prohibiting public indecency.”
“And did it?”
Thompson shrugged. “The bull we had painted on the sign included what might be called a physical exaggeration. We never heard any complaints. But Hickok said if it wasn’t changed he’d enforce the order and we’d be out of business.”
“Did Hickok hate Phil Coe for refusing to cut him in on the house winnings?”
“Well, that was enough to start something, but the way those two felt about each other had more to do with Phil stealing Hickok’s woman.”
For the first time since the testimony had begun, Crandall abandoned his relaxed pose and stood upright, as if the answer shocked him. He had an accomplished actor’s sense of theater. “Indeed! Tell us about that, Mr. Thompson.”
“Hickok had for some time been courting Miss Jessie Hazell when Phil came along and she took up with him. When he found out, the marshal swore he’d kill him.”
Crandall gave the murmuring in the gallery time to peak and begin to fade before asking, “Did you hear Hickok deliver this threat?”
“I didn’t personally, but it was common knowledge around town.”
Controlling himself with an effort, Scout objected on the grounds of hearsay and was sustained. Once again the jurors were asked to put aside something they had heard.
“When this is turned over to them, they’re going to spend more time forgetting than remembering,” Bartholomew confided to his partner. The prosecutor, pale with suppressed rage, didn’t answer.
“What sort of man was Phil Coe?” Crandall inquired.
Thompson answered without pausing. “He was the best and truest friend a man has ever known. A big, strapping fellow, he was as quick with a slap on the back and a joke as Hickok was with a pistol. I consider myself lucky to have been blessed with such a man for my partner.”
“When did you first hear that he had been killed?”
“A few days after the event. I had not seen him for three months. My leg was broken and my wife and little boy were badly used when our buggy overturned during a ride across the countryside. We were taken to the Lindell Hotel in Kansas City and there treated for several weeks. I wrote Phil to tell him what had happened, and he wired me three thousand dollars. We were on our way to my mother’s home in Austin for a rest when we were overtaken by a party bearing Phil’s casket. That was when I learned that Hickok had killed my partner and closed down the Bull’s Head.”
All trace of good humor had evaporated from Ben Thompson’s manner. As he droned on tonelessly, his emotion reflected only in the hard glitter that had replaced the twinkle in his eyes, a chill silence descended like a shroud over the assembly. This was the killer speaking. Crandall sensed this and made use of it.
“What did the members of this funeral procession tell you of the killing?”
“They said that Phil had been celebrating with his friends his intention to leave Abilene with Jessie Hazell when Hickok stepped out of a hotel doorway and shot him in the back at close range with a derringer. When Hickok’s own friend, Mike Williams, protested, he shot and killed him too.”
“Hearsay!” Scout’s chair tipped over as he leaped up, crashing to the floor with an ear-splitting report. “Defense counsel has repeatedly violated the rules of evidence in the interests of forestalling the inevitable. He has attempted time after time to sway the jury through illegal means, and I do not intend to stand for it!” He was leaning so far over the table, supporting himself upon his hands, that he was actually on all fours. His chest was heaving and his face glistened with perspiration.
“Are you finished with your tirade, counselor?” Coming upon the heels of Scout’s bellowing, the judge’s measured tones fell with greater force than usual.
Scout straightened, suddenly aware of appearing ridiculous. “My apologies to Your Honor and to this court for my unseemly outburst.”
Blair was unmoved. Long, bony hands folded beneath his chin, he focused washed-out gray eyes upon each attorney in turn. “The reputations of all counsels involved with this case have inclined me toward leniency. Because of the unorthodox nature of the issues at hand I have overlooked various borderline illegalities which another judge would be swift to staunch. I have issued far more warnings and far fewer punishments than is my usual custom. In return, I have received little but contempt. So hear this: If during the course of this trial either of you should attempt to slip anything past this bench which does not bear directly upon the fate of the accused, I will declare this a mistrial and have that man up on charges before the American Bar Association at the earliest opportunity. If I have not made myself clear please apprise.” Neither attorney spoke. He nodded. “Very well. The objection raised by counsel for the prosecution is sustained. All reference to what the witness was told regarding the death of Phil Coe will be stricken from the record. The jury will disregard it. General—”
Permission to proceed was interrupted as a deputy marshal who had been on guard at the door came down the aisle and bent to whisper in Scout’s ear. The prosecutor turned his head and whispered back as though asking a question. He nodded and rose.
“My apologies again, Your Honor. Something urgent has come up and I must request a fifteen-minute recess while I attend to it.”
“Does it bear upon this case, counselor?”
“I am told it does.”
“You have fifteen minutes.” The gavel descended.
Accompanied by Bartholomew, Scout followed the deputy into the corridor, where Marshal Burdick greeted him wordlessly with a tissue-wrapped package containing Grace Sargent’s yellow bonnet.
Chapter 15
Aheavy black woman in a brown hooded cloak that covered her from head to foot monk-fashion was standing beside the grim-looking marshal. Before Scout had time t
o realize the significance of the bundle in Burdick’s hands she blurted, “I didn’t want to bring him, Mr. Scout, sir. He made me show him what I had. They told me they’d kill Miz Sargent if I was to try and fetch the law.” She was shivering violently. It was a moment before the prosecutor recognized the round, creased face in the depths of the hood as that of Grace’s cook. Bartholomew, quicker on the uptake, laid a paternal hand on Scout’s arm.
“I was on my way to check on the deputies I had guarding Mrs. Sargent’s place when I come upon her waddling along with this here clutched in her arms like it was a baby.” Burdick raised the package. “When I stepped in front of her she like to of pounded me to a pulp. If I hadn’t learned to defend myself in the ring a long time ago she’d of busted my nose. You recollect this here?”
“It’s Grace’s bonnet.” Scout’s dead calm seemed to startle the big marshal. He couldn’t know of the sick emptiness that had come over the prosecutor upon recognizing the item. “Where is she?”
The cook was crying hysterically. Suddenly the bottom fell out of Scout’s reserve and he seized her by the shoulders. “Where is she?” The shout rang in the rafters of the corridor. All murmuring inside the courtroom ceased. Automatically the deputy reached in and pulled the door shut.
“Easy, Julian.” Bartholomew placed his hands on Scout’s own shoulders. His eternal calm seemed to pass into his partner, who relaxed and slackened his grip, finally releasing it altogether. The cook had by this time subsided into a blubbering fit.
“This was inside the bonnet.” Burdick handed him a sheet of light blue notepaper, Grace’s stationery. Her handwriting was as clear and firm as if she had been drafting an invitation to tea.
Julian,
Eloise has been chosen to bring you this message because she is the most frightened and the least likely to disobey orders. Although I am inclined to disagree, that is the reasoning of the men who are holding guns on me at this moment. I have been told to write that if you do not dismiss the charges against Jack McCall they will kill me and everyone else in the house. Eloise is to return with your reply by two o’clock.
Aces & Eights Page 12
