"You did perfectly right, Hans, and I'll back you in it. I'm something of a dabster at law myself, and I'll see that Kitsong don't railroad you into jail. What worries me is the general opposition now being manifested. With the whole Shellfish Valley on edge, your work will be hampered. It will make your position unpleasant for a while at least."
Hanscom uneasily shifted his glance. "That doesn't matter. I'm going to quit the work, anyhow."
"Oh no, you're not!"
"Yes, I am. I wrote out my resignation this morning."
Rawlins was sadly disturbed. "I hate to have you let this gang drive you out."
"It isn't that," replied Hanscom, somberly. "The plain truth is, Jack, I've lost interest in the work. If Miss McLaren is cleared—and she will be—she'll go East, and I don't see myself going back alone into the hills."
The supervisor studied him in silence for a moment, and his voice was gravely sympathetic as he said: "I see! This girl has made your cabin seem a long way from town."
"She's done more than that, Jack. She's waked me up. She's shown me that I can't afford to ride trail and camp and cook and fight fire any more. I've got to get out into the world and rustle a home that a girl like her can be happy in. I'm started at last. I want to do something. I'm as ambitious as a ward politician!"
The supervisor smiled. "I get you! I'm sorry to lose you, but I guess you are right. If you're bent on winning a woman, you're just about obliged to jump out and try something else. But don't quit until I have time to put a man in your place."
Hanscom promised this, although at the moment he had a misgiving that the promise might prove a burden, and together they walked over to the hall.
The crowded room was very quiet as the ranger and his chief entered and took seats near the platform on which the coroner and his jury were already seated. It was evident, even at a glance, that the audience was very far from being dominated, or even colored, by the Shellfish crowd, and yet, as none of the spectators, men or women, really knew the Kauffmans, they could not be called friendly. They were merely curious.
Hanscom was somewhat relieved to find that the jury was not precisely the same as it had been on the hillside. An older and better man had replaced Steve Billop, a strong partisan of Kitsong's; but to counter-balance this a discouraging feature developed in the presence of William Raines, a dark, oily, whisky-soaked man of sixty, a lawyer whose small practice lay among the mountaineers of Watson's type.
"He's here as Kitsong's attorney," whispered the ranger, who regretted that he had not made greater efforts to secure legal aid. However, the presence of his chief, a man of education and experience, reassured him in some degree.
Carmody, rejoicing in his legal supremacy, and moved by love of drama, opened proceedings with all the dignity and authority of a judge, explaining in sonorous terms that this was an adjourned session of an inquest upon the death of one Edward Watson, a rancher on the Shellfish.
"New witnesses have been secured and new evidence has developed," he said in closing, "and Mr. L. J. Hanscom, the forest ranger, who has important testimony to give, will first take the stand."
Though greatly embarrassed by the eyes of the vast audience and somewhat intimidated by the judicial tone of Carmody's voice, Hanscom went forward and told his story almost without interruption, and at the end explained his own action.
"Of course, I didn't intend to help anybody side-step justice when I took the Kauffmans to the station, because I heard the coroner say he had excused them."
"What about those raiders?" asked one of the jurors. "Did you recognize the man who shot Kauffman's horse?"
Carmody interrupted: "We can't go into that. That has no connection with the question which we are to settle, which is, Who killed Watson?"
"Seems to me there is a connection," remarked Rawlins. "If those raiders were the same people Hanscom arrested in the cabin, wouldn't it prove something as to their character?"
"Sure thing!" answered another of the jurors.
"A man who would shoot a horse like that might shoot a man, 'pears to me," said a third.
"All right," said Carmody. "Mr. Hanscom, you may answer. Did you recognize the man who fired that shot?"
"No, he was too far away; but the horse he rode was a sorrel—the same animal which the Cuneo girl rode."
Raines interrupted: "Will you swear to that?"
"No, I won't swear to it, but I think—"
Raines was savage. "Mr. Coroner, we don't want what the witness thinks—we want what he knows."
"Tell us what you know," commanded Carmody.
"I know this," retorted Hanscom. "The man who fired that shot rode a sorrel blaze-faced pony and was a crack gunman. To drop a running horse at that distance is pretty tolerable shooting, and it ought to be easy to prove who the gunner was. I've heard say Henry Kitsong—"
"I object!" shouted Raines, and Carmody sustained the objection.
"Passing now to your capture of the housebreakers," said he, "tell the jury how you came to arrest the girl."
"Well, as I entered the cabin the girl Rita was sitting with her feet on a stool, and the size and shape of her shoe soles appeared to me about the size and shape of the tracks made in the flour, and I had just started to take one of her shoes in order to compare it with the drawings I carried in my pocket-book when Busby jumped me. I had to wear him out before I could go on; but finally I made the comparison and found that the soles of her shoes fitted the tracks exactly. Then I decided to bring her down, too."
A stir of excited interest passed over the hall, but Raines checked it by asking: "Did you compare the shoes with the actual tracks on the porch floor?"
"No, only with the drawings I had made in my note-book."
Raines waved his hand contemptuously. "That proves nothing. We don't know anything about those drawings."
"I do," retorted Carmody, "and so does the jury; but we can take that matter up later. You can step down, Mr. Hanscom, and we'll hear James B. Durgin."
Durgin, a bent, gray-bearded old rancher, took the stand and swore that he had witnessed a hot wrangle between Kauffman and Watson, and that he had heard the Dutchman say, "I'll get you for this!"
Hanscom, realizing that Durgin was Kitsong's chief new witness, was quick to challenge his testimony, and finally forced him to admit that Watson had also threatened Kauffman, so that the total effect of his testimony was rather more helpful than harmful.
"Is it not a matter of common report, Mr. Coroner," demanded the ranger, "that Watson has had many such quarrels? I am told that he had at least one fierce row with Busby—"
"We'll come to that," interjected Carmody, as Durgin left the chair. "Have you Rita's shoes, Mr. Sheriff?" Throop handed up a pair of women's shoes, and Carmody continued: "You swear these are the shoes worn by Margarita Cuneo when you took charge of her?"
"I do."
"Mr. Hanscom, will you examine these shoes and say whether they are the ones worn by Rita Cuneo when you arrested her?"
Hanscom took them. "I think they are the same, but I cannot tell positively without comparing them with my drawings."
The jury, deeply impressed by this new and unexpected evidence, minutely examined the shoe soles and compared them with the drawings while the audience waited in tense expectancy.
"They sure fit," said the spokesman of the jury.
Raines objected. "Even if they do seem to fit, that is not conclusive. We don't know when the tracks were made. They may have been made after the murder or before."
"Call Rita Cuneo," said Carmody to the sheriff.
The girl came to the stand, looking so scared, so pale, and so small that some of the women, without realizing the importance of her testimony, clicked their tongues in pity. "Dear, dear! How young she is!" they exclaimed.
Carmody, by means of a few rapid questions gently expressed, drew out her name, her age, and some part of her family history, and then, with sudden change of manner, bluntly asked:
"How di
d you happen to be in that cabin with those two men?"
Pitifully at a loss, she finally stammered out an incoherent explanation of how they were just riding by and saw the door standing open, and went in, not meaning any harm. She denied knowing Watson, but admitted having met him on the road several times, and hotly insisted that she had never visited his house in her life.
"Where have you been living since leaving home?"
"In the hills."
"Where?"
"At the sawmill."
"How long had you been there when you heard of Watson's death?"
"About two weeks."
"Were you in camp?"
"No, we were staying in the old cabin by the creek."
"You mean Busby and Kitsong and yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, now, which one of these men did you leave home with—Busby or Kitsong?"
Her head drooped, and while she wavered Raines interposed, arguing that the question was not pertinent. But Carmody insisted, and soon developed the fact that she was much more eager to defend Busby than Kitsong. She denied that he had ever cursed Watson or threatened to do him harm, but the coroner forced her to admit that Busby had told her of having had trouble with the dead man, and then, thrusting a pair of shoes at her, he sternly asked:
"Are these your shoes?"
"No, sir," she firmly declared.
Her answer surprised Hanscom and dazed the sheriff, who exclaimed beneath his breath, "The little vixen!"
Carmody's tone sharpened: "Do you mean to tell me that these are not the shoes you wore in town yesterday?"
"No, I don't mean that."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they're not my shoes. They belong to that Kauffman girl. I found them in that cabin."
Hanscom sprang to his feet. "She's lying, Your Honor."
"Sit down!" shouted Raines.
The entire audience rose like a wave under the influence of the passion in these voices; the sheriff shouted for silence and order, and Carmody hammered on his desk, commanding everybody to be seated. At last, when he could be heard, he rebuked Hanscom.
"You're out of order," he said, and, turning to Raines, requested him to take his seat.
Raines shook his fist at the ranger. "You can't address such remarks to a witness. You sit down."
Hanscom was defiant. "I will subside when you do."
"Sit down, both of you!" roared Carmody.
They took seats, but eyed each other like animals crouching to spring.
Carmody lectured them both, and, as he cooled, Hanscom apologized. "I'm sorry I spoke," he said; "but the ownership of those shoes has got to be proved. I know they belong to this girl!"
"We'll come to that; don't you worry," said Carmody, and he turned to Rita, who was cowering in the midst of this uproar like a mountain quail. "Who told you to deny the ownership of these shoes?"
"Nobody."
"Just reasoned it out yourself, eh?" he asked, with acrid humor. "Well, you're pretty smart."
The girl, perceiving the importance of her denial, enlarged upon it, telling of her need of new shoes and of finding this dry, warm pair in a closet in the cabin. She described minutely the worn-out places of her own shoes and how she had thrown them into the stove and burned them up, and the audience listened with renewed conviction that "the strange woman" was the midnight prowler at the Watson cabin, and that Rita and her companions were but mischievous hoodlums having no connection with the murder.
Hanscom, filled with distrust of Carmody, demanded that the sheriff be called to testify on this point, for he had made search of the cabin in the first instance.
"We proved at the other session that Miss McLaren was unable to wear the shoes which made the prints."
"We deny that!" asserted Raines. "That is just the point we are trying to make. We don't know that this Kauffman woman is unable to wear those shoes."
Carmody decided to call young Kitsong, and Throop led Rita away and soon returned with Henry, who came into the room looking like a trapped fox, bewildered yet alert. He was rumpled and dirty, like one called from sleep in a corral, but his face appealed to the heart of his mother, who flung herself toward him with a piteous word of appeal, eager to let him know that she was present and faithful.
The sheriff stopped her, and her husband—whose parental love was much less vital—called upon her not to make a fool of herself.
The boy gave his name and age, and stated his relationship to the dead man, but declared he had not seen him for months. "I didn't know he was dead till the ranger told me," he said. He denied that he had had any trouble with Watson. "He is my uncle," he added.
"I've known relatives to fight," commented the coroner, with dry intonation, and several in the audience laughed, for it was well known to them that the witness was at outs not only with his uncle, but with his father.
"Now, Henry," said the coroner, severely, "we know this girl, Rita, made a night visit to Watson's cabin. We have absolute proof of it. She did not go there alone. Who was with her? Did you accompany her on this trip?"
"No, sir."
"She never made that trip alone. Some man was with her. If not you, it must have been Busby."
A sullen look came into the boy's face. "Well, it wasn't me—I know that."
"Was it Busby?"
He paused for a long time, debating what the effect of his answer would be. "He may of. I can't say."
Carmody restated his proof that Rita had been there and said: "One or the other of you went. Now which was it?"
The witness writhed like a tortured animal, and at last said, "He did," and Mrs. Eli sighed with relief.
Carmody drew from him the fact that Watson owed Busby money, and that he had vainly tried to collect it. He would not say that Rita left camp with Busby, but his keen anxiety to protect her was evident to every one in the room. He admitted that he expected Busby to have trouble with Watson.
Mrs. Kitsong, who saw with growing anxiety the drift of the coroner's questioning, called out: "Tell him the truth, Henry; the whole truth!"
Raines silenced her savagely, and Carmody said: "So Busby had tried to collect that money before, had he?"
"Tell him 'yes,' Henry," shouted Eli, who was now quite as eager to shield his son as he had been to convict Helen.
Carmody warned him to be quiet. "You'll have a chance very soon to testify on this very point," he said, and repeated his question: "Busby had had a fight with Watson, hadn't he—a regular knockdown row?"
Henry, sweating with fear, now confessed that Busby had returned from Watson's place furious with anger, and this testimony gave an entirely new direction to the suspicions of the jurors, several of whom knew Busby as a tough customer.
Dismissing Henry for the moment, Carmody recalled Margarita. "You swear you never visited Watson's cabin?" he began. "Well, suppose that I were to tell you that we know you did, would you still deny it?" She looked at him in scared silence, trying to measure the force of his question, while he went on: "You mounted the front steps and went down the porch to the right, pausing to peer into the window. You kept on to the east end of the porch, where you dropped to the ground, and continued on around to the back door. Do you deny that?"
Amazed by the accuracy of his information and awed by his tone, the girl struggled for an answer, while the audience waited as at a crisis in a powerful play.
Then the coroner snapped out, "Well, what were you doing there?"
She looked at Henry, then at Mrs. Eli. "I went to borrow some blankets," she confessed, in a voice so low that only a few heard her words.
"Was Watson at home?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
At this point she became tearful, and the most that could be drawn from her was a statement that Watson had refused to loan or sell her any blankets. She denied that Busby was with her, and insisted that she was alone till Carmody convinced her
that she was only making matters worse by such replies.
"Your visit was at night," he said. "You would never have walked in that flour in the daytime, and you wouldn't have gone there alone in the night. Busby wouldn't have permitted you to go to Watson's alone—he knew Watson too well." The force of this remark was felt by nearly every person in the room.
Hanscom said: "Mr. Coroner, this girl is trying to shield Busby, and I want her confronted by him, and I want Eli Kitsong called."
By this time many admitted that they might have been mistaken in accusing the Kauffmans of the deed.
Busby, a powerful young fellow, made a bad impression on the stand. His face was both sullen and savage, and the expression of his eyes furtive. He was plainly on guard even before Raines warned him to be careful.
"My name is Hart Busby," he said, in answer to Carmody. "I'm twenty-six years old. I was born in the East. I've been here eight years." Here he stopped, refusing to say where his parents lived or when he first met Margarita. He flatly denied having had any serious trouble with Watson, and declared that he had not seen him for almost a year.
"What were you doing in the Kauffmans' cabin?" demanded Hanscom. "You won't deny my finding you there, will you?"
He told the same story that Rita had sworn to. "We were riding by and saw that the place was deserted, and so we went in to look around."
"When did you first hear of Watson's death?" asked Carmody.
The witness hesitated. A look of doubt, of evasion, in his eyes. "Why, the ranger told us."
"Which of you owns that sorrel horse?" asked one of the jury.
Raines again interposed. "You needn't answer that," he warned. "That's not before the court."
Carmody went on. "Now, Busby, you might as well tell us the truth. Henry and Rita both state that Watson had refused to pay you, and that you had a scrap and Watson kicked you off the place. Is that true?"
Raines rescued him. "You don't have to answer that," he said, and the witness breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief.
They of the High Trails Page 28
