Frontier Lawyer

by Lawrence L. Blaine

  “Why, yes,” he said carelessly. “I heard something about that. Can’t be too serious.”

  “I suppose not,” said Julian, noting the look of surprise on Clem Erskine’s face.

  Kilgore lit a cigar. “What brings you to me, Julian? I’m a leetle surprised it ain’t Fred Hicks from the irrigation company.”

  “I wired to New York for instructions,” said Julian, lowering his eyes. “I was instructed this morning to bring the matter to your attention.”

  “Fair enough,” Kilgore agreed. “What’s the charge again? I seem to remember some rumor last night.”

  “Murder, Mr. Kilgore,” said Julian quietly. “Honey Morgan was found out in the hills.”

  Kilgore half-rose and in his surprise let his voice rise to an uncontrolled bellow. He struggled with the simultaneous blows of learning of Honey’s death, of Harry McCandless’ arrest, and of the delay in consulting him. He said, “God damn it, Julian! You mean to say you let that poor, defenseless boy spend the night in the lockup, the prey of an unconscionable and ruthless pack of enemies, without telling his lawyer?”

  Julian waited quietly, as if to tell Kilgore that he had lived a long time and never rushed about anything. “I telegraphed New York. Miss Carlotta replied instructing me to engage you in Mr. Harry’s defense. Her wire did not reach me until very late last night. I did not think to disturb you at that hour. I am sure Mr. Harry will come to no harm in custody.”

  Clem Erskine looked bewildered at the sudden explosion of events.

  Julian said firmly, “You will handle the case?”

  “I want to know a couple of things. How’d they pick on Harry as the suspect?”

  “I’m sure the sheriff could tell you that.”

  “And what do you know about Harry and Honey Morgan?”

  “It would be better if you spoke to Mr. Harry before questioning me, Mr. Kilgore,” said Julian significantly.

  Kilgore was silent a long moment. At length he said, “I’ll talk to Harry, and then I’ll decide if I want the case. If I take it, I’m not going to be cheap. It’ll cost Dan McCandless five good figures if he wants his boy to go free.”

  Julian’s lips puckered, as though the idea of discussing a fee at a breakfast table revolted him. “Mr. McCandless will remunerate you generously, of course. You have never had occasion to complain in your dealings with him before.”

  Kilgore grunted. “Mebbe not, but this case is going to be expensive,” he said grimly. “I don’t know the facts. But it’s one thing sure. Mike Duer wouldn’t have made an arrest without seeing to it he had a lot of backing. Certain things stand to reason.”

  Julian nodded and left.

  Clem Erskine waited as the lawyer stared out at the cold blue sky, frowning in thought. “Are you going to take the case, Mr. Kilgore?”

  Kilgore came back to the younger man. “Oh, I guess I’ll take it,” he said slowly. “Only it ain’t too simple, the way things are shaping in the Territory. I ain’t worried about the case. I can’t imagine any reason why Harry McCandless would touch a hair of that poor little girl’s head. He’s done a lot of wild and unprincipled things, but I don’t see that he’s got the makings of a murderer. However,” he said firmly, “if moral scruples stand between you and a large fee, Erskine, take the fee! In a confused and bewildering world that’s one rule that stands out like a beacon in the night to guide the weary advocate in his toil.” He gulped his coffee and rose. “Let’s get over to the lockup.”

  They stepped out into the cold. Kilgore winced as the icy gale doubled the pain in his ear. Dully he realized that a murder trial would keep him from tending to the infection for many weeks. Too bad all this had not come up a couple of weeks from now, he thought. A nuisance.

  As they trudged across the plaza to the sheriff’s office, Kilgore said, “A lot of people in New Mexico would like to see Harry McCandless hanged. Some of them because they despise him personally, and others because they know it would break Dan McCandless.” He shrugged. “Mike Duer’s an ambitious man. If he could make a murder charge hold against Harry, there’d be people in Santa Fe to reward him liberally.”

  “Would Duer deliberately try to build up a fraudulent case?”

  Kilgore grinned appreciatively. “Sound thinking, Erskine. It shows the earmarks of the born lawyer. I’ll be surprised, mighty surprised, if the exigencies of the law won’t make some such argument convenient and necessary. As far as I’m concerned,” he added, stamping the frozen earth, “Harry McCandless is the victim of prejudice and violence and the trampling of all his legal rights—by the tool of an unscrupulous clique of politicians prepared to use any means to tarnish the name of McCandless. But I promise one thing, Erskine! Dan McCandless will never see the day that boy of his goes to the gallows. This is Kilgore—for the defense!”

  On this note of determination, they reached the lockup. Kilgore rapped on the door peremptorily and when the bolt slid open applied his shoulder and made his entrance.

  6.

  LAWYER FACED SHERIFF for a long silent moment in the narrow, cramped office, while Clem Erskine stood uncomfortably to one side. Both he and Duer were well over six feet tall, and Kilgore, standing between them, seemed even squatter and thicker through the shoulders than usual.

  Kilgore said, “I hear there’s been a lot going on in this county behind my back, Mike.”

  “Do you figure you’ve got a right to know everything that goes on here, Kilgore?”

  “The daughter of a friend of mine’s been murdered, and the son of a client of mine has been arrested. I figure somebody ought to have told me a little about it all. The other day I spoke to Valdez about the disappearance of Honey Morgan. How come he didn’t come tell me she’d been found?”

  “Because I sent him up to Santa Fe to tell Laurie, that’s why. He stayed over there an extra day because she wasn’t fit to travel. He’s coming in with her on the morning train. It’s none of my job to keep you posted on the news around here, Kilgore.”

  “I suppose not,” the lawyer admitted grudgingly. “Have you met my new clerk, Clem Erskine? Clem, meet our illustrious sheriff, fearless in all save the pursuit of dangerous criminals. Michael Patricio Duer. If there’s any flaw in his character that you may suspect, Erskine, you name it, because he’s got it. But at least there’s one thing to be said in his favor. He’s been faithful in the pursuit of his own interests through a long and devious lifetime.”

  “One of these days,” Duer said heavily, “I’m going to stick a pin in you and let all that hot air out, Kilgore. Are you representing the McCandless boy?”

  “I might be.”

  “I figured as much. Well, you better prepare to have your string of successful cases broken. This boy’s gonna hang.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Kilgore said. “But suppose you give me at least a glimmer of the case against him.”

  Duer turned and aimed a globe of juice at a rusty spittoon. “Oh, now, Kilgore,” he drawled. “I’ve been up and down that hill before. Anything you want to know you’ll find out in court just as soon as I’m ready. I’ll tell you this much. I’ve got good and sufficient evidence, circumstantial and eyewitness, enough to hang him higher’n Haman! And I’m just beginning to put my case together.”

  “Just don’t be too sure,” Kilgore advised. “When does the boy get to be arraigned?”

  “You in a sweat?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Duer nodded thoughtfully. “Just as soon as Joe Valdez gets back from Santa Fe, I’ll suggest he convene a coroner’s jury to hold its inquest. But I can advise you right now, Kilgore. They’re going to bring in a finding of murder. That’s time enough for me to swear out a warrant against the boy.”

  Kilgore rocked slowly on his toes, eying the sheriff. “It’s my opinion,” he said slowly, “you ain’t got a case, Mike. There’s a furtive look in your beady eyes that tells me this is a highhanded act of legal violence without sanction in law and completely based on total lac
k of evidence. Otherwise you’d have had this boy before the justice of the peace first thing this morning. It’s just a typical legal outrage, Mike, and I’m going to expose your methods in open court.”

  Duer yawned provocatively. “I’m not interested in keeping any prisoner without due process, Kilgore. I run a clean operation. But if you think you’ve got a point, tell it to the justice of the peace. Or you know where else you can go for relief!”

  “Where’s that?”

  A slow grin spread. “Judge Hazledine sits in this circuit, Kilgore. And he’s back in Santa Fe! Any extraordinary relief you want, you know where to go.” Duer struck a sulfur match on his desk and lit a pipe, staring complacently at the lawyer.

  Kilgore’s scowl grew darker. Judge Abraham Hazledine of the Supreme Court of the Territory had jurisdiction here, in the Fifth Judicial District. But he was a henchman of Joel Tilley. He wasn’t likely to make any decisions favorable to Dan McCandless’ son.

  “Never you mind that,” Kilgore grunted. “Just get about your arraignment, if you can. Now I’d like to talk to the boy.”

  Harry McCandless was seated on the bunk bed of his austere cell in the rear cell block reading a book. Either he was thoroughly absorbed in it, or else he pretended to be; he did not look up until the cell door clanged.

  Kilgore said, “All right, Duer. I’ll call you when I’m through talking with him.”

  “No, you won’t. I’m staying right here.”

  “Like hell you are!” Kilgore grunted. “I’ve got a right to consult with my client in private.”

  “Talk to him all you like after the arraignment,” Duer said stolidly. “Right now any conversations will be held in my presence. You’ve got five minutes.”

  “Never mind, then,” Kilgore said. “I’m not minded to question him in front of you.”

  Harry, who had remained aloof and silent from the moment Duer, Kilgore, and Erskine had entered his cell, suddenly came to life. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” he said excitedly. “I’ve already told the sheriff I haven’t seen Honey for over two weeks. I haven’t laid eyes on her.”

  “This isn’t the time—” Kilgore began.

  “It’s the fraternity pin,” Harry went on, disregarding the lawyer’s raised hand. “It doesn’t prove I murdered her, or even that I saw her. There’s no indication when I gave her that pin—”

  “Shut up!” Kilgore said, bluntly and forcefully.

  Harry raised his voice. “There’s no case against me,” he said with an edge of hysteria. “I’ve denied seeing the girl, and he’s got no witness to contradict my statement!”

  Kilgore stepped forward and seized the younger man’s wrists in his powerful hands. “Shut your mouth!” he said with deliberation. “Mike Duer is drinking all this in. He doesn’t care what you say—just so long as you say something, Harry! Don’t admit anything, and don’t deny anything. You keep silent. Is that absolutely clear?”

  Harry looked aside. “I guess so.”

  Kilgore turned to the sheriff. “All right, Mike. I’ll just note for the record that counsel was denied an opportunity of a confidential interview in the manner prescribed by law. You’ll answer to me in court. Come on, Erskine.”

  “I’ll answer, all right,” said the sheriff with a small grin. “But I’ll answer with something better than a hair-splitting argument. I’ll answer with a solid case.”

  Kilgore turned and left, followed by his assistant. In the plaza, a small knot of curious onlookers eyed their progress as they picked their way to the warmth of the piñon-log fire blazing in the Franklin stove in the office. The lawyer was silent and thoughtful as he poured two whiskies, and only when he felt comfortable did he express his misgivings.

  “I could cut that fool boy’s tongue out,” he observed. “He was talking like a child.”

  “Why’s that, Mr. Kilgore?” Erskine asked. “All I heard were some denials. I thought he was pretty convincing.”

  “I suppose,” Kilgore agreed. “Harry’s always convincing and plausible, but he’s just about as smart as they come, and he understands legal principles and the problems of proof better than half the lawyers in the Territory. Which ain’t much of a standard, I’ll admit. A man in his spot shouldn’t even sneeze.”

  “You think he’s guilty?” Erskine asked.

  Kilgore shook a troubled head. “No,” he said, considering a gnawing doubt. “Harry’s high-strung and impulsive, but I can’t believe he’d do anything like this. No, what bothers me is something else. The only course is silence. A general denial can be harmful, but specific denials can always trip you up. He knows that just about as well as anyone. What makes him so talkative?”

  Erskine put another log into the stove. “I guess you’re officially on the case now?”

  An expression of pain crossed the lawyer’s face, and his hand went toward his ear. “Erskine,” he muttered, “I’m going to need intelligent help. I guess you can start by making a study of the relevant sections of the Compiled Laws of the Territory. You’ll find ’em next to that edition of The Federalist Papers. There’s nothing fancier, or more persuasive, than a fat quotation from the Founding Fathers of our country to make an impression on a jury.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Erskine.

  Westward out of New York sped the train bearing the McCandless family. They had left the morning after the arrival of the telegram. Now Dan McCandless stared out over the empty farmlands as they whizzed by. Carlotta was at his side, Isabella across the aisle. No one had spoken for hours.

  McCandless was a big man, close to six feet four and carrying his fifty-three years well. The last weeks, though, had aged him, and the telegram Carlotta had shown him after the opera had been the crusher. He clenched his fists, tightening the big, hairy fingers around each other. His empire—his world—was falling apart.

  Isabella, he thought. Proud daughter of a proud line. She was still beautiful, at forty-five. And he loved her as deeply as he had a quarter of a century before. But a gulf had sprung up between them, and he knew she hated him. He could hardly remember when she had last allowed him to sleep with her. He had gone elsewhere for that, but the loss of her physical love wounded him deeply.

  Carlotta. A good girl, he thought. Intelligent, beautiful. More beautiful than her mother had been. Isabella’s beauty had been of the lean Spanish kind, while Carlotta was full-bodied and abundantly feminine. But self-willed. At twenty-three, she should long since have been married. Yet she tended to frighten suitors away with her ruggedly independent ideas. She read too much. She thought too much. Of the three of them, McCandless thought, she was the only one with any love for him, but for all that he knew she disapproved of his ruthlessness, scorned his involvement in the predatory world of finance.

  Harry. Ah, there was the deepest wound. His only son, his heir—and his shame. If he did not know Isabella so well, he might suspect Harry’s paternity. For Harry was certainly not created in his father’s image. Eight inches shorter, a hundred pounds lighter, Harry was foppish, handsome in an effeminate sort of way. And he had a woman’s mind, too, unstable and skittish, unable to pursue any single line of activity for long. McCandless recognized his own stubborn strain in Carlotta, but there was little of him in the boy. Harry was a waster. And yet, to him would the McCandless empire descend if the vultures failed to destroy it in McCandless’ own lifetime.

  And now the murder charge. For the first time in his life Dan McCandless felt fear—fear that they would take his son away from him. Harry disliked his father, cleaving instead to Isabella and taking her side in family disputes. But he was still Dan’s son. Dan would never have another. To destroy Harry would be to destroy the McCandless name.

  Dan McCandless chewed viciously on his cigar, wishing he had his enemies between his molars instead. He wondered whether this present crisis would serve to unite his disunited family. Perhaps some good would come out of this all. He signaled to the car steward for another drink. He had been drinking steadily since the
train left New York, but to no effect. Not even a gallon of whisky could anesthetize him now, could halt his relentless brooding mind. Moodily he gulped his drink, feeling no surcease. The train sped westward.

  The following morning, Kilgore was waiting patiently for an expected report that Laurie Morgan had arrived from Santa Fe on the morning train with Joe Valdez. He remained in his office, fighting the pain in his ear, considering rumors brought to him by tipsters—rumors circulating in the bars and cantinas of San Carlos that the noise of the local murder was being heard in the Territorial capital and beyond. The great newspapers of New York and Chicago and Boston and Washington were sending inquiries to Sam Dodge as the local representative of the Associated Press for more details on the legal battle shaping up in the Territory—and the visitation of special correspondents was promised for the future. The Territorial newspapers, from Roswell’s Record to the New Mexican at Santa Fe, had already swung into action with shocked editorials, commenting on the political implications of a charge brought against Dan McCandless by the sheriff of San Carlos County, Michael Patricio Duer. A Denver newspaper had gone so far as to speculate that the Territorial Attorney General, Pierre Beaudoin, might openly intervene to supersede the local prosecutor. The undercurrent of an ugly mood was beginning to circulate throughout the territory.

  Toward noon Kilgore began to put on a sheepskin coat. Sarah Hilleboe confronted him firmly. “You’re not going out into the cold with that ear!” she announced. “Any errands can be run by me or Clem.”

  “Sorry,” said Kilgore. “This is one thing I’ve got to do myself.”

  Laurie Morgan was waiting in the Presidential Suite of the Marshall House—which consisted of two large rooms made hideous by mohair and tassels of velvet. She was dressed entirely in black and for the first time in decades was without a painted look. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she welcomed the lawyer.