Aces & Eights

by Loren D. Estleman

  Love,

  Grace

  “How many are holding them?” His outward calm had returned, but the paper rattled like a telegraph key in his hands.

  “The cook seen two. There might be more, but I doubt it. That don’t improve the odds none. I figure they killed my deputies or they wouldn’t be in there.” Burdick’s ham of a face betrayed no emotion.

  “Have you any idea who they are?” asked Bartholomew.

  “Eloise here gave me a pretty fair description of both of them. The tall Southerner giving the orders sounds like Johnny Varnes from an old wanted dodger I dug up on him. It don’t say nothing about a beard, but he could of growed that when things got tight in Deadwood. The other fits the description Mrs. Hope gave us of the one she saw watching the place the other night. I’ve got a theory about him. Varnes had a partner down in Deadwood name of Tim Brady. I couldn’t locate no paper on him, but I’m figuring Varnes is too smart to change horses on the gallop.”

  Bartholomew said, “But why is he taking this chance? What can he hope to gain?”

  “I’ve got a theory about that too. McCall was going to implicate him in Hickok’s killing and backed out. Varnes figures if he’s convicted he’ll spill everything just to beat the rope. Holding people hostage carries a lesser sentence than murder, and being a fugitive ain’t Varnes’s style, so maybe my deputies are alive after all. He’s boxing the compass.” He paused, then, “This might explain that dead Pinkerton one of the city marshal’s boys fished out of the river this morning, fellow name of Lucy. He’d been stripped and his face bashed in, but a deputy recognized him anyway. His credentials might have got them inside the house.”

  “Mother of God!”

  The exclamation startled Burdick, who hadn’t observed General Crandall opening the courtroom door. All the color had fled the defense attorney’s features.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded the marshal, embarrassed by his own jumpiness.

  “My esteemed opponent,” Scout snarled. But his sarcasm lacked conviction.

  “In more ways than one, apparently,” agreed Crandall. “I hired the Pinkerton.”

  The three glared at him. He said, “Don’t arrest me yet, Marshal. I instructed my partner to engage a detective for Mrs. Sargent’s protection.”

  “Since when have you been so interested in her welfare?” barked the prosecutor.

  “Since it threatened to affect the outcome of this trial. I don’t want to win that way. I’ll win, but I’ll do it on my own, with no outside help.”

  “Perhaps this is your doing.”

  Bartholomew said, “Julian, that was uncalled for. Crandall is a reputable—”

  The General held up a hand, cutting him off in midsentence. He met Scout’s gaze. “I fight my battles in the courtroom, counselor. But you’ve seen how I operate. If I had a hand in this, do you seriously think I’d leave you room to discuss alternatives?”

  Scout shook his head, suddenly too tired to think.

  “This decision isn’t ours alone,” suggested his partner. “I vote we take it up with Judge Blair.”

  Like Scout, the judge was a pipe smoker. Once behind the desk in his book-lined study he seized a charred blob of briar from a stand of more respectable-looking clays and cherrywoods and began stuffing it with black shag from a worn leather pouch. In the bright sunlight streaming through the window he looked even older than he did on the bench, his eyes tired black hollows beneath the shaggy white shelf of his brows. He finished charging the pipe and lit it while Bartholomew briefed him. The attorney might have been quoting an obscure legal precedent for all the effect his words seemed to have on Blair.

  When Bartholomew was finished, the judge shook out his match and dropped it into a heavy brass ashtray on the corner of the blotter. He sat back against the high, leather-upholstered back of his swivel chair, smoking and regarding the faces of Marshal Burdick, General Crandall, and Orville Gannon, seated, and of Bartholomew and Scout, the former standing before his desk, his partner a restless dark profile against the window. Gannon, who had learned of this latest development along with the judge, reflected neither surprise nor dismay. Blair wondered how deep his emotionless façade went, or if it was a façade at all. The black woman’s soft sobbing was the only sound in the room; Burdick, showing more sensitivity than the judge had believed he possessed, had seated her beside him, where she could draw upon his stolid presence.

  “I would add obstruction of justice to the charge of unlawful incarceration,” Blair commented at last. “Mr. Scout, why was I not informed of the threats against you from the beginning?”

  Bartholomew answered for him. “Threats are nothing new when a celebrated case is being tried, Your Honor. We took routine steps for Mr. Scout’s protection and let it go at that. We thought it best not to bother you with it.”

  “I like being bothered, Mr. Bartholomew. If I did not I would never have accepted this assignment. I assume all the necessary precautions have been taken?” His eyes went to Burdick, who nodded ponderously.

  “I’ve got all the deputies I can spare watching the house from cover. They’re instructed to keep cover and do nothing unless they try to leave the house.”

  “And if they do?”

  “One of them is to follow along while the others get word back to me. I don’t want any hostages caught in crossfire if I can help it.”

  “May I see the message?”

  Burdick drew the blue slip of paper from the package on his lap and leaned forward to place it in the judge’s outstretched hand. Blair read it, holding it at arm’s length. He had left his spectacles in the courtroom.

  “You’re certain this is Mrs. Sargent’s hand, Mr. Scout?”

  “Yes, yes.” The strain was beginning to show. Ignoring his curtness, the judge turned to Crandall.

  “How did these people find out you were hiring a Pinkerton?”

  “Not from me,” put in Gannon. “I mentioned it to no one but agent Lucy.”

  Crandall said, “I instructed Mr. Gannon to engage a detective during his visit to my cell. There were other prisoners in the block. It’s possible we were overheard.”

  “That could be,” agreed Burdick. “We gave up trying to stamp out the grapevine a long time ago. My figuring is that Varnes or someone representing him came in and spread some money around, looking for information. Among the prisoners, of course.”

  “Of course.” Blair spoke archly. “How would the defense answer this threat?”

  The General sat with his chin on his chest and fingers laced across his swollen middle. “As I told the others earlier, I’d rather not win on the merits of someone else’s efforts. But the decision is not mine to make.”

  Orville Gannon said nothing. His eyes were flat discs behind the lenses of his spectacles. Blair gave up trying to read what was behind them.

  “Does Your Honor have any suggestions?” Bartholomew asked.

  “This is Marshal Burdick’s investigation. Marshal?”

  The big man shrugged a massive shoulder. “That’s Scout’s lady friend in there.”

  Blair shook his head. “Dropping the case against the defendant under these circumstances would lay us all open to charges of influence. He can, however, ask to be replaced, in which event I will be obliged to declare a mistrial and start all over again with a fresh deck.” He frowned at his own choice of images. Only a handful of his card-playing friends knew of the judge’s affinity for poker.

  “Well,” said Crandall, consulting his watch, “someone had better decide soon. It’s quarter past one.”

  All eyes swung to Scout. He fidgeted, finally meeting the marshal’s gaze. “You’re the expert. What would you do?”

  “That’s easy,” said Burdick. “Lie.”

  “Lie?” The prosecutor echoed him as if the word had no meaning for him.

  “Tell him you’ll drop the charges. Buy time. When you come down to it, time’s the only weapon we have.”

  “What makes you think I�
�d be lying?”

  “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear.” Blair’s voice was cold. “Should you decide to dismiss the charges under duress, I shall take steps to see that you never plead another case in any court.”

  Burdick watched Scout quietly. “I been standing on this side of a badge long enough to know a sticker from a quitter. You wouldn’t knuckle under any quicker than I would.”

  After a moment the prosecutor said, “Suppose I buy you the time you need. What will you do with it?”

  “I’ll have to ask you to trust me there.”

  “Marshal.” Scout turned his back to the window, a tall man whose sagging shoulders took the place of features blacked out against the glare and made up for the misleading blandness of his tone. “The woman I hope to marry is locked up in that house with at least two killers. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t know what you’re going to do about it.”

  The lawman answered without hesitation. “Because I don’t know myself.”

  Silence lay heavy in the room. Even the cook had stopped crying, her tears glistening on her puffy cheeks as she watched Scout. At length he nodded.

  “Do what you have to, Marshal.” He pushed away from the window.

  “What about you?” Burdick rose.

  “I’m going to do what the taxpayers pay me for: Pull every legal string I know to see that a murderer like McCall hangs.”

  “That’s off the record, of course,” put in Crandall.

  In spite of himself Scout smiled. “Of course.”

  “What time is it?” Tim Brady asked, coming into the entrance hall, where Varnes had moved the hostages because of the big windows that looked out upon the street.

  Varnes, occupying a satin-upholstered sofa opposite the one in which sat Grace Sargent, Dora Hope and the four remaining servants, inspected his pocket watch. The captured deputy was seated on the floor near the others, gagged with a handkerchief and bound with the cord from a sash weight. “Onetwenty,” said the Southerner. “There’s plenty of time yet.”

  “You don’t reckon she went for the law, do you?”

  “I don’t reckon she didn’t.” He met Brady’s stare. “I told you at the start there was no hope of us walking away from this free men. I gave you the choice of spending a year or two behind bars or dodging the hangman for the rest of your life. You made it.”

  “Yeah, but things are different now.”

  “You made them different when you killed that deputy. If you’d taken him hostage like I told you, we’d have reason to bargain. Now we’re facing a murder charge no matter which way we turn.”

  “You didn’t feel that way when you told me to kill the Pinkerton.”

  “I also told you to fix it so the body couldn’t be identified and linked to us. You did do that?” He looked at him questioningly.

  “I ditched his clothes and messed his face up good. His own mother wouldn’t know him.”

  “I’m not so sure. In any case it no longer matters.”

  “So why go through with it? Why didn’t we just light a shuck instead of sending the nigger woman out with that note?”

  “We wouldn’t have made a mile. With hostages we may be able to bargain our way onto a ferry and head for Canada. The note may make them think we haven’t killed anyone. The cook can’t tell them about the dead deputy because she doesn’t know about him. If they found out we’d killed a fellow lawman, they’d burn us out and shoot down everyone who steps out the door, hostages or no hostages.”

  “In other words, we’re bluffing.”

  “In other words, yes.” Varnes smiled bitterly. “Hickok would love it, the poker-playing son of a bitch.”

  Brady was studying Grace Sargent’s ankle where a crumpled fold in the hem of her skirt exposed two inches of stocking above her shoe top. Noticing the angle of his gaze, she rearranged the material to cover it. Varnes noticed too.

  “There’ll be time enough for that on board the ferry,” he told his partner. “Get back in the kitchen and keep an eye on the rear of the house. Or maybe you’d rather be up to your ears in her petticoats when the law gets here.”

  “It’d almost be worth it,” leered Brady.

  Chapter 16

  Two unexplained recesses had raised the atmosphere in the courtroom to a fever pitch of anticipation, which was quickly extinguished as Crandall resumed his interrogation of Ben Thompson by going back over ground already covered to refresh the jury’s memory.

  “One more question, Mr. Thompson,” he said, once the details of the deceased’s relationship with Phil Coe were fixed. “As you know, my client is on trial for the slaying of James Butler Hickok. Based upon your dealings with the man you knew as Wild Bill, how do you feel about that?”

  Thompson stared at McCall, who jerked his head up to return his gaze. There was nothing mild about the witness’ eyes now.

  “If my leg weren’t broken when Phil was killed,” he said, bringing his attention back to the attorney, “that’d be me sitting there in irons.”

  Scout took advantage of the excited murmuring prompted by Thompson’s comment to confer with Bartholomew. “There’s a mine of material to choose from,” he said, arranging the clippings he needed from the dusty pile on the table. “Where shall I start?”

  “Jessie Hazell was nothing more than a prostitute. You can chip away at that statue Thompson’s erected to Coe by asking him if he knew she moved in with his partner after dumping Hickok.”

  “No good. That reduces their shoot-out to an argument over the affections of a whore, and where does that leave our heroic lawman? I think I’ll go directly to the source.”

  He rose. “Your final comment interested me very much, Mr. Thompson,” he began, striking a casual pose with hands in pockets. “You weren’t indulging in idle bombast, were you?”

  “I never have.” The witness appeared wary.

  “Just how many men have you killed, Mr. Thompson?”

  “Objection.” Crandall kept his seat. “The witness is not on trial.”

  “Your Honor, I am merely exploring Mr. Thompson’s answer to defense counsel’s last question,” said Scout.

  “Objection overruled. The witness is instructed to answer.”

  “I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

  “Ah, yes, the killer’s credo.” The prosecutor strolled around in front of the table. “However, that is not the issue.”

  “In the war—”

  “Let’s not count the war. How many men have you killed in civilian life, Mr. Thompson? That should help keep the number within the bounds of credibility.” When the witness hesitated, “Would you say five, for example?”

  “I would say I’ve killed five, yes.”

  “Would you say six? Eight? How about ten? Or would twenty be closer to the truth? Answer me, Mr. Thompson. Have you killed twenty men?” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting.

  “Yes!” bellowed the man in the box, and when he realized that the other had stopped shouting he sank in upon himself, embarrassed for having lost control.

  “You seem proud of it, Mr. Thompson.” Scout’s tone was oily.

  “Objection!” barked Crandall.

  “Sustained. My warning stands, counselor.”

  The prosecutor inclined his head in an apologetic bow. But his eyes remained on Thompson. “In 1856, when you were thirteen years old, did you stand trial in Austin, Texas, for shooting another boy in the backside with a shotgun?”

  The question caught Thompson offguard. “Loaded with mustard seed!” he retorted, after an instant.

  “Was a conviction obtained?”

  “Yes, but the jury recommended clemency and the governor issued a pardon. It was a schoolboy prank.”

  “A painful one, I would imagine.” Scout went on. “Years later, were you the subject of a manhunt in New Orleans for having killed a Frenchman in a duel?”

  “You can’t prove that.” The witness’ eyes were dangerous.

  “Do you deny
that you were sought for the slaying?”

  “It was said that I had killed the man in a fair fight after I had observed him forcing unwelcome attentions upon a young lady aboard a coach. I was forced to hide out in the Sicilian quarter until friends helped me out of town.”

  “Do you deny that you killed the Frenchman?”

  Crandall popped up. “He doesn’t have to answer that.”

  The judge leaned down toward Thompson. “Do you plead the Fifth Amendment?”

  Thompson glanced toward Crandall, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Scout regretted not having placed himself between them. The witness nodded.

  “Answer yes or no, Mr. Thompson,” Blair directed. “The recorder takes no note of gestures.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let the record show that the witness declines to answer on the grounds of self-incrimination.”

  “I have no objections,” said Scout blandly. “There is much more here, as Mr. Thompson well knows.” He glanced at his notes. “Shortly after the outbreak of hostilities between North and South, while serving the Confederacy under Colonel John R. Taylor at Fort Clark, New Mexico Territory, were you arrested for shooting and killing a mess sergeant during a quarrel and attacking a lieutenant who tried to stop you?”

  “Your Honor, the witness has admitted to having slain a certain number of men.” Crandall’s tone belonged to a disappointed headmaster. “I see no reason for his having to do so again in this tedious fashion. For that matter, I see no reason for this entire line of questioning. What bearing does it have upon his testimony?”

  Countered Scout, “Your Honor, defense counsel has asked Thompson to render a sullied picture of the deceased’s character. I question the witness’ ability to make such a moral judgment based upon his own dubious past.”

  Blair considered for a moment before responding. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue this line, counselor. A man who has killed is not necessarily a perjurer. Besides, we seem to be straying rather far from the issue at hand, which is the guilt or innocence of the accused. Recorder, strike everything after the witness’ response to the question, ‘Have you killed twenty men?’”