“He didn’t have to. Pearlie has spoken well of you. He considers you his special friend,” Kathleen said. She pointed to the low-crowned black hat Cal was wearing. “And he told me all about your silver hatband.”
Cal took his hat off and fingered the silver band. “Yes, ma’am, well, I loaned it to him is what I done, ’cause I know’d he would bring it back to me and that way, he wouldn’t stay gone forever. Course, I didn’t count on him windin’ up in jail or nothin’.”
“Ma, none of us have eaten yet, and we are very hungry,” Lenny said.
“Oh, forgive me for not asking you earlier. Please, please, sit down and I’ll have your lunch out here right away.”
“I want to thank you, Mrs. York, for taking such good care of Pearlie,” Sally said.
“Please, call me Kathleen.”
“Only if you call me Sally. Pearlie told us about the food you have been taking to him. From the way he described it, I am very much looking forward to the meal.”
“I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
“I’m sure we won’t be.”
“Did you make chicken and dumplin’s today?” Lenny asked.
“Yes, we did.”
“I figured you would, this being Wednesday. You always make chicken and dumplin’s on—” Lenny paused in mid-sentence, then said, “We?”
“What?”
“You said, yes, we did,” Lenny said. “What do you mean, we?”
“I’ve hired some help.”
“Really? Well, I’m real glad you did that. You work too hard. You don’t need to work as hard as you do.”
Kathleen smiled as she went into the kitchen. A moment later, she came out carrying a tray filled with plates. Behind her, also carrying a tray, was Mary Lou Culpepper.
“Mary Lou!” Lenny said, standing up quickly. “You’re workin’ here now?”
Smiling, Mary Lou nodded. “Your ma hired me,” she said.
“How—uh—how is it going?”
Kathleen put her arm around Mary Lou’s shoulders. “It’s going really well,” she said. “Mary Lou and I are getting along just famously, aren’t we, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Lou said.
“Kathleen, I see that this is a boardinghouse as well as a restaurant,” Sally said. “Is it for longtime borders only? Should we go to the hotel?”
“You don’t want to go to the hotel,” Kathleen said. “That is, unless you want to do business with Pogue Quentin. He owns the hotel. You can stay right here. I have two very nice rooms, one for you and Mr. Jensen, and one for Cal and Mr. Murchison. That is, if the two of you don’t mind sharing a room,” she added, looking toward Cal and Murchison. “And we have a very nice drawing room where you can relax,” she added.
“I don’t mind sharing a room if Cal doesn’t,” Murchison said.
After supper, Kathleen showed them to their rooms. As they passed through the drawing room, Sally saw an upright piano, similar to many of the instruments she had seen in private homes, schools, churches, and even saloons throughout the West. The only difference was this piano was obviously loved and very well cared for, because it was in much better condition than almost any other piano she had seen since she left New Hampshire. She walked over to it, then ran her hand across the smooth, polished surface.
“Oh, what a beautiful piano,” she said.
“You should hear Lenny play it,” Kathleen said, proudly. “It has a beautiful tone.
“Lenny, I would love to hear you play something. Would you play for us?” Sally asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Jensen, you don’t want to hear a saloon piano player,” Lenny said.
“No, and I don’t want to hear a saloon piano player either,” Kathleen said.
Sally looked at Kathleen in surprise, but before she could say anything, Kathleen continued.
“What I want to hear, and what I am sure these fine people would like to hear, is a pianist, not a saloon piano player. Play something, Lenny. Play something beautiful,” Kathleen said.
“You mean concert music?” Lenny asked.
“I mean something beautiful,” Kathleen said.
“All right,” Lenny said. He sat down, opened the lid over the keyboard, and for a few seconds, did nothing. Then the melodic phrasing of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 14 poured forth from the piano, filling the parlor with its repeating theme and beautiful melody. This was not “Buffalo Gals,” or “Cowboy Joe,” or one of the other songs so often heard in saloons. This was something one might hear on the stage in New York, Boston, London, or Paris.
Lenny played through to the finale. Then he let his arms drop to his side as the last melodic notes hung in the air. Looking up, he saw tears in Mary Lou’s eyes.
“Mary Lou, what is it?” Lenny asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Mary Lou answered. “I’ve only heard you play in the saloon—I had no idea you could play like this. I’ve never heard such music. I never knew anything could be so beautiful.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sally stayed back to visit with Kathleen and Mary Lou, while Smoke, Cal, Lenny, and Tom Murchison walked down to the New York Saloon.
“Hey, Lenny, it’s good to see you back,” Rodney Gibson said when Lenny and the others stepped inside.
“Hi, Mr. Gibson. I suppose Mr. Evans told you where I went. I hope you didn’t mind.”
“He said you went to tell Pearlie’s friends about his trouble.”
“Yes, sir, I did. These are Pearlie’s friends, Smoke Jensen and Calvin Woods. And this is his lawyer, Tom Murchison.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Gibson said, shaking hands with the three men.
Also present in the bar were Lloyd Evans, Elmer Brandon, Doc Patterson, and Deckert. Lenny introduced them as well.
“I suppose you know that Mary Lou isn’t working here anymore,” Gibson said.
“Yes, sir, she’s working for my ma now.”
“I ought to be angry with your mother for taking her away from me, but I’m not. Mary Lou is a good girl who fell on some hard times. I hope things work out for her.”
“I do, too,” Lenny said.
“So Pearlie has a lawyer, does he?” Doc Patterson asked. He chuckled. “I don’t reckon that’s going to make Pogue Quentin all that happy.”
“Oh? Does Pogue Quentin not believe in the right of the accused to have counsel?” Murchison asked.
“Oh, I reckon he is all right with it in principle,” Doc Patterson said. “He’s just not that happy with it in fact, when the lawyer is defending the man who killed his son. Especially if the lawyer is from out of town, and not controlled by Quentin.”
“Are all the lawyers in town controlled by Quentin?”
“The lawyers and the law.”
“Why does the town put up with it?” Cal asked.
“I reckon because he owns everything in town,” Deckert said.
“He doesn’t own my saloon,” Gibson said.
“And he damn sure doesn’t own my newspaper,” Brandon said.
Doc Patterson chuckled. “He doesn’t like that either. Sometimes your articles get him pretty upset.”
“Freedom of the press, gentlemen,” Brandon said, holding up his finger to make a point. “It is the most precious of all our rights and as long as I own this newspaper, and that will be as long as there is breath in my body, I will be a voice crying out in the wilderness against the evil oppressor.”
Doc laughed, and applauded quietly. “Spoken like a noble patriot,” he said.
“There he is!” a loud voice called then, and looking toward the swinging bat wing doors, they saw Marshal Dawson and Deputy Wilson. Wilson was pointing at Smoke. “That’s the one who said he was going to kill me.”
“What’s your name, mister?” Dawson asked, his face scowling in anger and intimidation.
“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
The hard set of Dawson’s face drained away, his pupils narrowed, and he took a quick, short breath.
/> “The Smoke Jensen?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Smoke replied. “I’m the only Smoke Jensen I know, so I suppose you could say that I am ‘the’ Smoke Jensen, but I don’t know for sure.”
“What difference does it make who he is?” Wilson asked angrily. “I told you, he said he would kill me if we hung Pearlie.”
Dawson said nothing.
“Well, there he is, just standing there,” Wilson said. “You ain’t goin’ to let him get away with that, are you? I’m an officer of the law. He can’t talk to me like that.”
Dawson still said nothing.
“Ask him,” Wilson said. “Ask him if he said he was goin’ to kill me if Pearlie got hung.”
When Dawson remained quiet, Wilson spoke again.
“Ask him,” he demanded again.
“Do you really want to ask that question?” Smoke asked, not answering directly.
“No,” Dawson said, speaking for the first time. “I don’t intend to ask the question. Let’s go, Wilson.”
“What?” Wilson asked, growing even angrier now. “We’re just goin’ to leave and do nothing?”
“Yeah,” Dawson replied. “We are just going to leave and do nothing.”
“I’ll be damned,” Gibson said. “I never thought I would see anything like what just happened. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure what just happened. Mr. Jensen, step up to the bar. You and your friends can have a drink on the house.”
“Hell, Rodney, does that include us?” Brandon asked. “We just made friends with Mr. Jensen.”
Gibson laughed. “Yes,” he said. “That includes everyone.”
As the men stood along the bar waiting for the drinks to be served, Lenny spoke up.
“Doc Patterson, Mr. Brandon, and Mr. Deckert were playing cards with Pearlie and Billy Ray when everything started,” Lenny said.
“Good, good, maybe I can convince you to be a witness for the defense,” Murchison said.
Brandon shook his head. “It won’t do you any good,” he said. “Doc and I left before the shooting. We didn’t see a thing.”
“What about you, Mr. Deckert?” Murchison asked.
“I wasn’t actually playing cards then,” Deckert replied.
“No, but you were sitting at the table, watching us play,” Brandon said.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” Murchison said. “You saw everything.”
“I ain’t goin’ to testify,” Deckert said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand,” Deckert said. “You don’t live here. None of you do. You think this is just a trial like any trial in any other town, but it ain’t. This trial has already been held, and Pearlie has already been found guilty. Don’t you understand that? He has already been found guilty. The jury, the judge, even the court, they don’t mean a thing. The only thing that means anything in this town is Pogue Quentin.”
“Mr. Deckert, I know you have seen the gallows in the middle of the street down there,” Smoke said.
“How can I not see it?” Deckert replied. “The whole town has seen it.”
“Are you willing to watch an innocent man hang, just because you are afraid to testify?”
“I’m not afraid to testify.”
“Oh?”
Deckert stroked his chin. “All right, maybe I am afraid. But if I thought it would do any good, I would testify anyway. It just won’t do any good, that’s all.”
“I’ll be a witness for you, Mr. Murchison,” Lloyd Evans said.
“You saw it?”
“I didn’t see what started it all,” the bartender said. “But I did see the end of it. I saw Billy Ray come in here, blazing away with his shotgun.”
Murchison smiled, and lifted his beer to the bartender. “That’s a start,” he said.
“Wait a minute, maybe my testimony would do you some good after all,” Brandon suggested. “I mean, Evans saw how it all ended, Doc and I saw how it started. I guess we could testify about that.”
“Hold it, Elmer, don’t count me in on that,” Doc said.
“Doc, you saw how it all began, same as I did. You could be a witness.”
“If I don’t know any more than you do about it, what good would my testimony be?”
“You afraid to testify, Doc?” Cal asked.
Doc shook his head. “It’s not that I’m afraid,” he said. “But I’m a veterinarian. I see maybe ten or twelve dogs and a couple of cats that are pets in this town. And I see thirty thousand head of cattle that belong to Quentin. I can’t make a livin’ just by tendin’ to people’s pets.”
“I see your point,” Brandon said. Brandon looked back at the lawyer. “He’s right, Mr. Murchison. Even if he does testify, he won’t be able to add to anything I might say. And testifying could cost him his livelihood.”
“All right,” Murchison said. “I guess we can get along without your testimony.”
“Thanks,” Doc said, the relief on his face obvious.
“Damn, I wish the trial was a couple of days from now,” Brandon said.
“Why is that?”
“I could write an article about it,” Brandon said. “I could write an article and remind people of their civic duty.”
Half an hour later, Brandon stood in his newspaper office, looking at the Washington Hand Press that loomed in the shadows. Walking over to it, he ran his hand across the top arc of the press, the metal feeling cool to his touch. He looked over at his type trays, then smiled.
“Why the hell not?” he asked, saying the words aloud, even though he was alone in the room. “What do you think, Emma?” he asked, looking up as if speaking to his late wife. “I’ll put out an extra. I’ve never done it before, but I can’t think of a time when there’s ever been more of a reason for one than now. Yes, sir, an extra edition.”
Holding a lit match to the wick of a nearby kerosene lantern, Brandon turned up the light, then started setting the type.
Half an hour later, he took the first sheet off the press, then held it up for a closer examination.
“Here it is, Emma,” he said. “Yes, sir, this will shake them up.”
Tumbling Q
The sun was not even up the next morning when Marshal Dawson showed up on Quentin’s front porch. He banged on the door until, finally, he saw the moving gleam of a candle as someone inside came down the stairs to answer the door. It was Quentin, wearing a sleeping gown and carrying a candle.
“Dawson,” Quentin said grumpily. “What are you doing here? What time is it?” Quentin looked around toward the big grandfather clock that stood in the foyer, just at the foot of the stairs. “It’s not even five o’clock yet.”
“I thought you might want to see this,” Dawson suggested, holding out a copy of the newspaper.
“A newspaper? Why the hell would I want to read a newspaper at this time of morning?”
“Just read it,” Dawson said. “You’ll see why.”
Quentin gave Dawson the candle to hold, then using the small bubble of golden light cast by the candle, he read the paper. Not until he was finished did he talk again.
“Where did this come from?” he asked.
“It was pushed under the door at the jail,” Marshal Dawson said. “It must’ve been around midnight last night. I never saw it until this mornin’. What I don’t understand is how it got there. This isn’t the day the paper comes out.”
“This isn’t a regular issue,” Quentin said. He pointed to the banner across the top. “It says here that this is an ‘extra.’ That means a special paper printed at a time that isn’t normal. I wonder how many copies he printed.”
“Looks to me like he might have printed enough so that ever’ man, woman, and child could have his own copy,” Dawson said. “As I was ridin’ out here this mornin’, I seen ’em lyin’ all over the place, on porches, in wagons. They was a pile of ’em down at the train station and another bunch at the stage depot.”
“And you didn’t think to go gather them
up, did you?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t think about doin’ nothin’ like that. I reckon I could do that when I go back.”
“It’s too late. By the time you get back, the people in town will be waking up’,” Dawson said. “Within an hour, I expect just about everyone in town will have read it.”
“I expect so,” Dawson agreed.
“Why did you let him do it?”
“Well, in the first place, Mr. Quentin, I didn’t know he was goin’ to print the thing. And in the second place, how was I goin’ to stop it anyway? I mean, it ain’t against the law to print a newspaper.”
“In Santa Clara, the law is what I say it is.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“There are no buts,” Quentin said. “I own the law and I own you, bought and paid for. And I intend to get my money’s worth.”
“All right, what do you want me to do about the paper?” Dawson asked.
“Nothing. It’s too late, the paper is out already. What I intend you to do is make certain the man that killed my son gets what’s comin’ to him.”
“You don’t have to worry none about that. That’s goin’ to happen,” the marshal said.
“Did you get Gilmore appointed prosecuting attorney?”
“Yes, sir, we done that all right,” Dawson said. “Judge McCabe got in on the evenin’ train last night, and me ’n Gilmore met him.”
“Well, it’s good to see that you aren’t totally incompetent. What time does the trial start?”
“The judge said he’ll start the trial at one o’clock this afternoon.” Dawson chuckled. “I figure he’ll have the trial over by three, and we’ll have that fella hung by four.”
“I want you to go back into town now and make certain nothin’ happens to get in the way.”
“What could possibly get in the way?”
“That’s what you said the other day. I didn’t have anything to worry about, you told me,” Quentin said. He held up the broadsheet. “Then Brandon published his extra.”
“Well, what is that goin’ to do? It’s just a paper.”
“Have you ever heard the expression the pen is mightier than the sword?” Quentin asked.
Savagery of The Mountain Man Page 20
