“I don’t see how it could make anyone but Quentin mad,” Doc said.
“Are you accusing Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a fool. I was out at the Tumbling Q this morning, and Quentin was there. He probably has twenty witnesses who will say he was there all morning. Quentin didn’t do it.”
“If Quentin didn’t do it, then who did?”
“I told you. I don’t know who did it. I just know who didn’t do it. But don’t worry, I’ll find out.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Doc said dryly.
By now there were at least twenty or more people who had gathered in and in front of the newspaper office, crowding in closer, trying to find out what was going on.
At the far end of the street, in Quentin’s General Store, Hoyt Poindexter saw someone looking at the display of bandannas he had just put out on a table this morning. The customer was so short that only his head and shoulders reached above the table.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Poindexter asked.
The little man’s tongue darted out a couple of times before he spoke. “I want the red one,” he said, his voice little more than a hiss.
“I’ll get it for you,” Poindexter said, reaching for the red bandanna. As he moved closer to the table, he could see out the window, and noticed that, down at the other end of the street, a crowd was beginning to gather around the newspaper office. He paused for a moment as he looked toward the gathering.
“That one,” the little man said again.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Poindexter said, getting the bandanna and handing it to the little man. “That will be ten cents.”
The short man reached into his pocket.
“I wonder if he is putting out another extra,” Poindexter asked.
“Who?”
“Mr. Brandon, the newspaper editor. He put out an extra edition about the trial last night, first time he’s ever done anything like that. And now there seems to be something going on down there.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the little man said as he handed a dime to Poindexter.
“Thank you for your business, sir,” Poindexter said.
With the transaction completed, and no more customers in the store, Poindexter walked out onto his front porch and looked down toward the newspaper office, wondering just what was going on.
The little man with the new red bandanna rode out of town.
When Doc stepped into Kathleen’s Kitchen a few minutes later, he saw Pearlie’s friends having breakfast and talking animatedly about the special edition of the newspaper.
“It is an exceptionally well-written piece,” Murchison said. “I just hope the good people of Santa Clara realize what a talented journalist they have in Mr. Brandon.”
“Hello, Doc,” Smoke said, seeing the veterinarian standing just inside the door. “Come join us. We are talking about the newspaper article your friend wrote.”
“Elmer is dead,” Doc said in a flat, somber voice.
“Who is dead?” Cal asked.
“Elmer Brandon.”
Sally gasped. “You mean the newspaper editor?”
Doc nodded.
“He just left here no more than half an hour ago,” Murchison said.
I know,” Doc said. “He left here, then he stopped my office for a few minutes, the way he does every morning, then he walked on down to his office. Someone must have been waiting for him there, because no more than two minutes after he left me, he was dead.”
Smoke picked up the newspaper and looked at the article again. “I guess he was more courageous than we thought.”
“Mr. Murchison, Elmer was going to testify for you, wasn’t he?” Doc Patterson said.
“Yes, sir, he was.”
“Well, now, I’m going to.”
“I appreciate that, Dr. Patterson, I truly do,” Murchison said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Because the New York Saloon was the only building large enough to hold the number of people expected to attend the trial, the hearing was held there. Gibson had been told that no liquor could be sold during the time of the trial, but the trial generated enough early business to compensate him for it, so he willingly closed the bar at twelve thirty.
More than half the population of the town made plans to attend the trial. This included several women and the parson of the local church, none of whom who had never seen the inside of the saloon before. Earlier today, out of deference to the ladies who would be attending the trial, Gibson hung a white silk cloth over the nude painting, Note From Cupid.
It was obvious that many of the women had heard of the painting, because several of them looked for it as soon as they came in, and a few even expressed their disappointment over the fact that the painting had been covered.
Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen were sitting in the front row, immediately behind the defense table. They had arrived early so that they were there when Pearlie was brought into the improvised courtroom, his hands shackled behind him. Deputy Wilson was the escorting officer, and he strutted importantly alongside Pearlie, guiding him by way of his hand gripping Pearlie’s elbow.
“Hello, Smoke, Miz Sally, Cal,” Pearlie said, smiling at his friends as he walked by them. “Hi, Lenny, Miz York, Miss Culpepper.”
They all responded.
“Don’t you worry none, Pearlie,” Cal added encouragingly. “Everything is going to be just fine. Mr. Murchison is the smartest lawyer I know.”
Pearlie laughed. “Cal, that would give me a lot of comfort if I thought you knew a lot of lawyers.”
Murchison chuckled.
“Now you sit there, and you don’t give me any trouble,” Wilson said authoritatively as he unlocked the shackles. “’Cause I’m goin’ to be sittin’ right over there and I’ll be keepin’ my eyes on you for the whole time.”
Pearlie rubbed his wrists as he sat down.
The saloon was buzzing with the conversation of well over one hundred spectators, but suddenly the conversation grew quiet. Curious as to why the conversation had suddenly stilled, Smoke turned in his chair and looked back toward the front door. There, standing just inside the batwings, he saw Pogue Quentin, accompanied by a small, evil-looking man.
“Smoke, that fella with Quentin. That’s—” Cal started to say, but Smoke interrupted him.
“Borgardus Cates,” he said.
“Yes, they call him Snake Cates. He’s one of the deadliest killers in the country,” Cal went on, anxious to show that he knew something about Cates.
“I wonder what he’s doing here,” Sally said.
“I’m sure Quentin hired him,” Smoke said.
“Smoke, do you think he is the one who killed Mr. Brandon?”
“I would bet on it,” Smoke replied.
“You have to know that Marshal Dawson would suspect that, yet here he is, just as bold as life.”
“The mistake you are making, Sally, is in thinking that Dawson is a real law officer,” Smoke said. “He isn’t. He is Quentin’s man.”
Quentin and Cates walked to the front of the room. There were no empty seats in the front row, but when Quentin glared at two men who were sitting there, they got up quickly and went to the back of the room, thus enabling Quentin and Cates to sit behind the prosecutor’s table.
Murchison had already met the prosecutor, having talked with him for a few minutes about half an hour ago. Santa Clara did not have a full-time prosecuting attorney, nor did Huereano County. It was normally the responsibility of the presiding judge to appoint one, but in this case, he didn’t have to. When Marshall Dawson and Percy Gilmore met the judge at the depot last night with the request that Gilmore be assigned the position of prosecutor, it had surprised Judge McCabe.
Appointing someone who actually wanted to be the prosecutor was a rare break from the routine. Most of the time, Judge McCabe would encounter resistance from those he appointed as prosecutor, so he welcomed this turn of events and appointed Gilmor
e to the position, even before he left the depot.
As Quentin and Cates took their seats behind the prosecutor’s table, Gilmore turned to engage them in conversation. They spoke so quietly that nobody near them could hear what was being said.
“You did what?” Gilmore gasped aloud.
“You don’t have to worry about it none,” Quentin said. “You didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. It was—”
Gilmore held up his hand and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t say another word. I can’t know anything about it, do you understand? Say nothing more to me about this.” Gilmore turned his back to them.
Lenny chuckled. “Mr. Gilmore seemed upset with Quentin. I wonder what that was all about,” he said.
Before anyone could respond to Lenny’s question, Marshal Dawson stepped up to the front of the room and cleared his throat a few time until he had everyone’s attention.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here Court of Huereano County, Santa Clara, Colorado, is now in session. Everyone will come to order, the Honorable Judge Cleetus McCabe presiding. All rise.”
Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen stood with the others. Conversations were cut off in mid-sentence, and there was a scrape of chairs and rustle of clothing as those in the gallery stood. A spittoon rang, then rocked on the floor as someone made an accurate expectoration of his tobacco quid.
Judge McCabe was a rather large man, with cheeky jowls, piercing blue eyes, and a bald head. He ambled to the bench, then sat down.
“Be seated,” he said.
There was another scrape of chairs as those present took their seats. McCabe picked up the piece of paper that was lying on the table that served as his desk.
“Comes now before this court, in the case of The People versus—” He paused for a moment, then looked up. “Pearlie? Pearlie what?”
“Just Pearlie, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied.
Judge McCabe shook his head. “No,” he said. “That won’t do. I’m going to need your entire name.”
“Please the court, Your Honor,” Murchison said. “As the person named in the indictment is identified only as Pearlie, and as my defendant readily agrees that he is the Pearlie so named, there is no legal requirement that any other name be used. I’m sure Your Honor is aware there have been cases tried and adjudicated for persons known only as John Doe.”
Judge McCabe stroked his chin for a moment as he studied the document before him. Clearing his throat, he looked up at Pearlie.
“Do you hereby state before this court that you are the person identified in this indictment as Pearlie?”
“I do, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied.
“Then Pearlie it shall be,” McCabe said. He turned back to the document and continued to read. “In the case of The People verses Pearlie, the charge is murder, and murder in the first degree.”
This time, McCabe looked over at the prosecutor’s table. “Murder in the first degree? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to amend this charge? I was under the impression that it was a spur-of-the-moment killing. Murder in the first degree requires premeditation. That’s going to be a hard case to make, don’t you think?”
“First degree, Judge,” Quentin called out. “I want this son of a bitch to hang.”
Angrily, McCabe picked up his gavel and brought it down sharply on the table. “Order in the court!” he said. “Any more outbursts like that, Mr. Quentin, and I will have you escorted from this court. Do you understand?”
Quentin glared at the judge, but said nothing.
“Do you understand, sir?” McCabe asked, the tone of his voice even sharper than before.
“Yeah, I understand,” Quentin replied.
Gilmore turned toward Quentin. “This is going to be hard enough as it is,” he said quietly. “Please don’t make it any harder.”
“Mr. Prosecutor, do you wish to amend the charge?” McCabe asked again.
“No, Your Honor. There is no set time limit for pre-medication. It can be as little as a second.”
“Very well, the charge shall be prosecuted as entered. With lawyer for the defense present, and with the prosecutor present, we shall now proceed with voir dire of the impaneled jury.”
The first juror questioned by Murchison was James Colby. “Mr. Colby, what is your occupation?”
“I’m a rancher—sort of,” Colby replied.
“Sort of?”
“I’m still running longhorns when everyone else is switching to Herefords. It’s getting harder to hang on.”
“Did you know Billy Ray Quentin?”
“Yeah, I knew him,” Colby replied.
“How well did you know him?”
“In a town this size, and with someone like Billy Ray, almost every one knew him.”
“What do you mean, someone like Billy Ray?”
“He was the son of the wealthiest man in the county. And he could be quite unpleasant. Like I said, everyone knew him.”
“Do you have any financial obligation or business relationship with Pogue Quentin?”
“No,” Colby answered resolutely.
“Do you think you could render an honest verdict, based entirely upon the evidence presented in this case?”
“I do.”
“The defense accepts the juror, Your Honor,” Murchison said, returning to his seat.
“Voir dire, Mr. Prosecutor?” McCabe said.
Gilmore stood up, but did not walk away from the prosecutor’s table. “Mr. Colby, you said that Billy Ray could be unpleasant. What did you mean by that?”
“You knew him as well as I did, Percy,” Colby answered. “Why would you even have to ask such a thing?”
“Did you like Billy Ray?”
“I don’t know if anyone liked him,” Colby replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be fair.”
“I see. Let’s change directions, Mr. Colby. Were you present at a meeting in Pogue Quentin’s home several months ago, when several ranchers from the area made the decision to pool their livestock and property into one larger cooperative ranch?”
“You know I was. You were there, too.”
“Yes, I was. And I know the answer to this question as well, but I want you to answer it for sake of the court. Did you join with the others?”
“No. I did not.”
“Why didn’t you join, Mr. Colby?”
Colby looked over toward Quentin with a disapproving expression on his face.
“Because I thought he was just settin’ everything up so as to cheat us out of our land,” Colby said. “And it turns out that I was right. Gillespie, Peters, Baker, and the others—they are all gone now. Gone without so much as one cow or one acre to their name. Quentin owns it all.”
“Do you find fault with Mr. Quentin for that?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Do you blame Mr. Quentin for the fact that these other gentlemen you mentioned lost their property?”
“You damn right I do,” Colby said resolutely. “He stole that land from them as sure as if he had done it with a gun.”
Gilmore turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, dismiss for cause. It is clear that there is some animosity between this juror and the father of the victim.”
“You may step down, Mr. Colby,” McCabe said. “You are dismissed from this jury.”
Gilmore dismissed two more of the potential jurors, both of whom had had run-ins with Billy Ray, and Murchison dismissed two of the jurors who were currently cowboys working for the Tumbling Q. They finally ended up with a panel of twelve.
“Those jurors who have been dismissed may stay as spectators, but you are to have no contact with the remaining jurors,” McCabe said. He looked over toward Gilmore. “Mr. Prosecutor, you may give your opening statement now. Make your case.”
Gilmore walked over to the jury. “Hello, Greg,” he said to the first juror. “Is your wife going to enter her plum jam in the county fair this year?”
The juror smiled. “Yes, sir, she sure is. You k
now Alice. Her plum jam has won a blue ribbon for the last three years running.”
“As it should have. I know it’s certainly the best I’ve ever eaten.” Gilmore smiled. “In fact, I had it on a biscuit for breakfast this morning. I’m sure she’ll do well again this year.”
Gilmore turned to the next man. “Good afternoon, Adam, how is little Sterling doing? I know he broke his arm. Is it healing up all right?”
“His arm is coming along just fine,” Adam replied. “He complains that the cast makes it itch all the time.”
Gilmore chuckled. “Oh, indeed, it will certainly do that. I remember that I broke my arm when I was about the same age as young Sterling is now. I fell off the roof of the barn. But you just remind him how good it will feel when he can finally get the cast off and scratch.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” Adam said.
Gilmore went on down the line, speaking to every other member of the jury in the same way, calling each of them by name and making some personal comment, either about them, or about someone in their family.
“Now, fellas,” he said, after he had spoken to each one of them individually, “in a few minutes, that man sitting behind the table over there”—Gilmore pointed to Murchison—“the counsel for the defense, is going to give you his opening statement. No doubt, he is going to begin by addressing you as ‘gentlemen of the jury.’
“He has to do that, you understand, because he doesn’t know you. He is a stranger to our town, and it will be a stranger who addresses you.”
Gilmore pointed to Pearlie.
“A few days ago, the defendant was also a stranger to our town. None of us had ever heard of him. But he is certainly not a stranger any more. By now, everyone in town knows him, and knows the evil deed he did. You see, nine days ago the defendant, this—spawn of Cain—came into town, had a few drinks, got into a card game, and became so enraged over what was happening in that game that he killed—no—he murdered Billy Ray Quentin.
“I knew Billy Ray. All of you knew Billy Ray. In fact, I would go so far as to say that everyone in town either knew him or knew of him. We knew him because he was the son of Mr. Pogue Quentin, who is, arguably, the wealthiest man and the leading citizen of our fair city.”
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