“I think he’s magnificent,” Carlotta said. “And behind all the flamboyance and bluster, he’s such a tender man. An idealist, almost. But he hides it well. It only slips through when he forgets to wear his cynic’s mask. My father has always had the greatest respect for Jake Kilgore—and my father doesn’t respect many men.”
“They’ve known each other a long time, haven’t they?”
Carlotta nodded. “Years and years. Kilgore was once a prospector for a mining company my father owned. He saved my father’s life in a saloon brawl, and my father never forgot it. Later he got Kilgore out of some trouble with the law, and still later he helped him get admitted to the Territorial bar. So each owes the other debts. But of course they disagree on almost everything my father does.”
“I imagine they would,” said Clem seriously.
Carlotta turned an appraising glance. “Oh, why?”
Clem shrugged, wondering whether he was not getting onto dangerous ground. “Mr. Kilgore’s a real lawyer,” he said slowly. “I’ve just been with him a short time, but I get the feeling that he hates injustice. He’s always on the side of the underdog and that’s why—”
“Is my brother an underdog?” Carlotta asked. “It’s hard to think of anyone in my family in those terms.”
“Well, from what I hear, Miss McCandless, there’s a great deal of antagonism to your brother. In that sense—why, yes, he’d be an underdog. Trouble is your father’s been kind of ruthless.” Clem paused. “I’m sorry,” he said with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to let it slip out, only—”
Carlotta finished the thought. “Only you wonder what I think about it all?” Her laugh was short and hard. “You don’t need to apologize to me. My father’s an unusual man. He’s gifted with limitless energy and a hunger for wealth and power that seems to be part of our times. This country is growing in wealth and population, but it’s still the frontier— and nature is out there—” She paused. “He’s my father, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t my own point of view. He’s an enemy of the country.”
“Strong language, Miss McCandless.”
“I have strong feelings. Not only about my father, but about the way this whole country is going. A small bunch of rich men grabbing, grabbing, grabbing—and the ordinary people getting stepped on all the time. There’s a new century starting in a few years, Mr. Erskine, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a bloody one. Even bloodier than the last. A lot of capital is flowing into this country from Europe. Half the cattle business is financed in Antwerp and London and Paris. Our mining shares and other business are built on money flowing from Europe—and that’s really what’s going on in the West. You take that scandalous situation involving the Fallon Grant—”
As the clacking miles passed, Carlotta outlined earnestly and with precision a gigantic land steal engineered in the General Land Office and the Congress of the United States in which several million acres of land through fraud and chicanery had been transformed from free government land, made fruitful by settlers, into the private preserve of a group of financial manipulators who had fallen upon the virgin land like a plague of locusts. This tremendous operation, involving grazing lands and coal and silver and copper, had ultimately come into the ownership of a crowd of Antwerp financiers into whose hands the ownership of a substantial part of the West had passed. Clem sat with open mouth at the glimpse of manipulations which he could only dimly see.
“Somebody’s got to own the land,” he said feebly.
Carlotta paused abruptly. “I’ve been talking too much,” she decided. “Trouble is that when people get despoiled and bitter, they take to violence. It isn’t local. All over the world similar forces are at work. The European powers are getting prepared for a war that could destroy all civilization and involve this country. Dan McCandless isn’t important—except as a symptom.”
The train was chugging painfully up a rise now toward the north from which it would make the approach to their destination. He was surprised that so much time had passed.
“A war?” he said slowly. “That would involve the United States?”
“It would start in Europe, I’d say.”
“Then why worry about it?”
“We’ll be drawn in,” Carlotta said vehemently. “Our whole way of life will be shattered.”
Clem laughed. “We’re not going to fight any wars in Europe, Miss McCandless. I agree that a lot of ugly stuff goes on in this country, but I can’t foresee any wars or revolutions or stuff like that. Things are getting better all the time. Twenty years ago this country out here was lawless. Now we’ve got due process. America’s growing up, Miss McCandless.”
“Do you really think so? Do you believe that the country is getting more law-abiding of its own accord?”
“I do. I think another forty or fifty years and greed and selfishness will be overcome by force of law.”
“How romantic,” Carlotta said. “And I wish I could agree. But I’m more cynical. I think it’ll take a panic and maybe a revolution before the corruption in this country is cleared up. As long as men like Joel Tilley and my father hold power, we won’t have any utopias here.”
“You’re a pessimist, Miss McCandless.”
“I’m a realist. When I was younger, I had your starry-eyed optimism. But I’m losing my faith in the human race, Mr. Erskine. I’ve come to foresee the worst.” She smiled. “But we’re talking so seriously, and my father keeps warning me not to get into deep discussions with interesting young men. May I call you Clem? And would you tell me exactly what you hope to do for my brother in Santa Fe?”
Clem reddened. He had left his innocence behind years ago, but sitting next to this dynamic young woman unnerved him and made him feel like a gawky sixteen-year-old all over again. He knew that there were two kinds of women in the world: the ones like Honey Morgan, whom you could have a good time with and maybe sleep with—and the respectable women, who stayed aloof and were chaperoned rigidly till their wedding day. But this Carlotta was in a class by herself— aristocratic and respectable enough, but yet bold, capable of taking train journeys by herself, capable of calling men she had just met by their first name and telling them they were “interesting.”
She was different. She had probably had some affairs already, he thought. But even the idea that she had already given herself to some man didn’t diminish the awe and respect he felt for her. He found himself powerfully attracted to her, almost uncomfortably so.
He said, “Call me Clem, sure. Is ‘Miss Carlotta’ all right?”
“If you like. Why to Santa Fe, Clem?”
“To apply for a writ of habeas corpus for your brother. Mr. Kilgore wants to get him up before the court and perhaps quash the whole indictment. You know what happened on the arraignment?”
She nodded. “It’s been explained, but I’m not too sure what it all means. Or what you hope to accomplish now.”
Clem paused to consider. “I’m not too sure myself,” he admitted. “I only know I’m expected to present a petition for a writ of habeas corpus for your brother. It’s got to be signed and then there’s a hearing and Mr. Kilgore will have a chance to make an argument to show that your brother is being illegally detained.”
“Illegally?” she asked curiously.
“If there’s no basis for his arrest,” Clem said, “then he’s got to be turned loose. It’s a way to test out the prosecution.”
“I see,” said Carlotta, and turned aside to study a snowy hillside covered with dark stretches of pine and darker stretches of fir.
“I’m on my way to see the governor,” she said abruptly.
“Governor Tellegen? My gosh! You don’t mean to say you can get him to help your brother?”
“I know Governor Tellegen,” said Carlotta simply. “I met him in New York during the season and we chatted about his appointment to the Territory. He’s been appointed by the President for the special purpose of dealing with Joel Tilley and the rest of his ring. I should think you’
d know that.”
“No, Miss Carlotta. I haven’t been in the Territory that long.” Clem paused. “Would you mind a delicate question? Why isn’t your father seeing the governor himself?”
Carlotta considered her answer. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “There’s something strange about it. I know he’d cut off his arm to help Harry. No one ever loved a son more than my father. But there’s something—”
She had been carried away by the recollection of a family quarrel, a heated argument that had continued from the great library at Wa-po-nah into the bedroom and late into the night—a quarrel that had involved her mother and the distress of a family in agony. It was nothing she cared to disclose to the young man, she realized, and abruptly changed the subject.
“Governor Tellegen feels that it’s his mission to clean out the corruption in the Territory. I’m afraid that he links my father with Tilley in some way. What I hope to do is to make a personal appeal not to let this trial be rigged by Tilley. I want the governor to remove Beaudoin as prosecutor and to replace him with somebody who isn’t beholden to Tilley.” She hesitated and added, “Or to my father.”
“Do you think he’ll do it?”
“I’ve got to try,” she said. “I’m not asking for a McCandless man as prosecutor. I’m only asking for a fair trial.”
A moment of silence passed.
Clem said, “You don’t believe your brother killed this girl, do you?”
“No!” Carlotta was about to add something, then paused. “I don’t think Harry could murder anyone. Certainly not that girl. I’m only afraid of surprises.”
“Surprises? How?”
She shook her head. “I’m talking about the appearance of things. I don’t want him railroaded in a rigged trial and by my father’s enemies. I’m sure Harry’s innocent.”
“How can you be sure?” Clem asked curiously.
Carlotta turned and stared into Clem’s face with level, grey eyes of deep certainty. “Harry’s my brother,” she said simply. “He could never, never be guilty of murder. I don’t care what the evidence can be.”
They talked for a while longer, then fell into silence. Carlotta opened her bag and produced two copies of McClure’s, one of which she offered to him. He accepted—he was always hungry for reading matter of any sort—and was soon engrossed in the magazine. He was interested to find many of Carlotta’s ideas echoed in the impassioned crusading articles.
They reached Santa Fe late that afternoon. The weather was cold there, too, thanks to the altitude, but the sun was shining and there was no wind, only the dry cold. Clem had been in Santa Fe before, but he never failed to respond to the old city’s historic echoes. It was the oldest seat of government in the United States, after all. Spanish gobernadores had ruled here decades before the settlement of Jamestown. The ancient mission-style houses reeked of the past.
Both he and Carlotta were staying at the Manzanilla Hotel. But Clem so arranged it that they separated at the railroad station and drove to the hotel in different buggies.
Kilgore had wired ahead, making reservations for him. Clem walked into the ancient building, identified himself at the desk, and was shown by a desiccated old Indian to a room on the third floor. The room was large and spacious but rather drafty. Four dollars a night seemed like an incredible sum to be paying, Clem thought, but since Dan McCandless was underwriting all expenses he was willing to enjoy the extravagance.
It was too late in the afternoon to set about chasing Judge Hazledine. Clem settled down in his room and leafed through the papers he had brought with him.
There were five judges of the supreme court of the Territory, each one assigned to a specific district. Most of the year, they sat en banc at Santa Fe, considering appeals and acting collectively as a court. But part of the time they rode out as circuit judges to the various district courts to hold jury trials, consider motions, hear appeals from the inferior courts, and the like.
Hazledine was a Tilley appointee who had been on the supreme-court bench only about a year. But he was reputed to be a thorny individualist who did not always take dictation from Tilley. Kilgore hoped that Hazledine would rise to the occasion in this Harry McCandless trial, and show his independence. Otherwise the trial might become a mockery.
Clem tidied the papers and put them carefully away again. He had no particular fear of the assignment, merely awe at the gravity of it. Under the law, the judge was compelled to sign the writ upon application, provided the papers were in order. Kilgore had used some strong language here in protesting the detention of Harry McCandless, but Clem saw nothing in the petition that might cause its rejection. So Hazledine would sign it, and the writ would immediately take effect.
Frowning, Clem paced the room for a while, trying to foresee the course of the case as though he, and not Kilgore, were the lawyer. With dismay, he realized that for all his youthful energy he had no clear-cut idea of the strategy Kilgore would adopt. Clem consoled himself with the thought that perhaps at this early hour not even Kilgore himself knew the way he would steer things. Too many factors were unknown as yet.
Clem stripped down and gave himself a sponge bath to get rid of the dust of travel. Then, dressing again in his one good suit, he went downstairs to the lobby. A few well-dressed loungers were loafing about there. Clem took a seat, hoping to see Carlotta appear. He did not dare go to her room, nor even to ask the desk clerk where she was staying. For all he knew she was in the room next to his. The thought dizzied him. But it was a large hotel, he reminded himself. She was probably in another wing entirely.
He went into the hotel bar and treated himself to a glass of sherry, thriftily jotting down a fifteen-cent entry on the list of expenses Kilgore had instructed him to keep. “Don’t stint yourself, boy,” the lawyer had ordered. “Your mind won’t function if you starve your body. You needn’t order champagne for breakfast, but don’t be niggardly while you’re up there, either.”
The sherry was good. He thought to have another, decided that it would be overly self-indulgent, and walked on through the bar into the restaurant. The hotel restaurant was reputed to be one of the finest in town, with nothing less than a French chef. Erskine was no connoisseur of food, but he liked good cooking nearly as much as Kilgore did.
He stood alone at the entrance to the big dining room, a tall and solitary figure. Even though it was still quite early in the afternoon, the dining room was crowded, and a steady hubbub of conversation arose. Most of the people eating there were middle-aged and wealthy-looking.
The head waiter appeared at his side. “One, señor?”
“Yes. One.”
“Come this way, por favor.”
Clem followed him through the room, feeling awkward and out of place in such fancy surroundings. He made a stern inner effort to banish his self-consciousness. As a future lawyer, he’d be moving in a brand-new world, and he had better get used to it now.
“Here you are, señor.”
With a courtly bow, the man pulled out a chair for Erskine. He had been placed at a tiny table in the rear, against the wall. Well, no surprise, he told himself; he had neither looked important nor proffered a tip for a better table.
A waiter placed a menu in front of him. Erskine glanced at it cursorily, then looked up and around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Carlotta entering. He could invite her to his table— though it would be hollow, somehow, to treat her to dinner with her own father’s money.
He did not see Carlotta. But he spied another familiar face only three tables away—a gaunt woman in black, talking animatedly to a sixtyish man of great strength and bearing.
Laurie Morgan. And though he had never laid eyes on him, Clem was willing to bet that her dinner partner was none other than Joel Tilley.
9.
LAURIE was signaling to him. Clem stared at her in surprise, realizing slowly that she was inviting him to come over and join her. She and her dining partner occupied a large table, one that could easily hold six. He rose,
taking his menu with him, and walked over.
“Hello, Mrs. Morgan,” he said with a forced smile.
Laurie stared petulantly. “What brings you to Santa Fe, young man? Some of Jake Kilgore’s trickery?”
Clem felt uncomfortable standing there clutching his menu. Had she invited him over just to rail at him? He said as calmly as he could, “I’m here to take legal action in Territory vs. McCandless.”
“Just what I said. Legal trickery. Do you know Mr. Tilley?” Laurie asked, her voice loud and raucous in the genteel dining room.
Erskine shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve never met.”
“Well, now we have,” the man boomed. He did not rise or offer his hand. He was short and stocky, with a barrel chest and a graying, spadelike beard. His complexion was dark, his skin leathery, his eyes deep-set and hooded. His mouth was a thin, cruel slash. “I’m Joel Tilley,” he said. “I understand you’re Jake Kilgore’s new clerk?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tilley seemed amused. “Join us, young feller?”
“All right.” Clem hesitated and then sank into a chair facing the others. It was really no surprise, he reflected, to find Laurie Morgan in conference with the enemy, but it seemed unusual to receive a social invitation under the circumstances. Or was it? Was there anything in legal ethics to prohibit the conversation? Beneath the surface politeness ran an under-current of menace and—what? Was it a note of warning? He waited quietly.
Joel Tilley swallowed a mouthful of local venison and wiped away gravy stains with a fat damask napkin. He seemed to be estimating the quality of the younger man. He said, “Been working long for Kilgore?”
Clem shrugged. “Little more than a week.”
“Ornery, ain’t he?”
“Not more than most,” said Clem. “He’s an individualist, I guess.”
Tilley smiled grimly. “How come Kilgore’s got you running errands so quick? Why ain’t he here himself?”
“I think that’s Mr. Kilgore’s business,” said Clem stiffly. “I don’t mind telling you, he’s just a bit under the weather.”
Frontier Lawyer Page 9
