His laugh died somewhere deep within him and his mouth fell open stupefied. He was looking down two shotgun barrels, the wrong way. Stewart went for his gun, but before he could reach it he was hurled back through the swinging doors. The big man’s dead body crumpled on the deck outside. Freddie Scott, no expert with a rifle, had grimaced as he pulled the trigger. The recoil had knocked him to the ground. Hitting his head against a table as he fell, the young bartender had knocked himself unconscious.
When Scott came to his senses, the saloon was crowded. Upon hearing shots, some of the locals had braved the danger to find out who had been Stewart’s latest victim. When the cry went out that it was indeed Stewart that was dead, all the others saloons emptied. A dazed Freddie Scott rubbing his bruised head looked up to a sea of faces. Toothless Larry Morgan asked him, “Did you shoot Stewart, Freddie?”
“Yes,” answered Scott still dazed.
“Lordy, lordy, lordy! Young Freddie killed Jimmy Stewart!” Morgan gleefully shouted, barely able to keep his chewing tobacco from dribbling out of his toothless grin. A cheer reverberated around the packed saloon. “Fetch the judge, this has gotta be done lawful!” Morgan winked at the bewildered Scott. Pulling the young bartender to his feet, Morgan told him, “We’re going to try you, but before the judge arrives, better be sure I have something to drink!”
The judge, a small man, moved with difficulty through the crowd. Upon instruction from Morgan, he clambered up onto the bar and addressed the attentive throng.
“This here is a court of law, and I am presiding judge for Placer County and the glorious state of California. All here shall show due reverence and be silent while the court debates the seriousness of this matter.”
“Get on with it, judge, this ain’t no lynching!” called a voice from the back.
“OK, enough of that!” the judge countered. “Get the defendant a chair!” Freddie was hurriedly sat down.
“Where is the arresting officer?” the judge asked.
“Ain’t no arresting officer, Judge, we thought we cut all that malarkey out. Freddie’s got to be back at work in a couple of minutes.” Morgan sheepishly grinned at the judge.
“Look, Morgan, this has got to have some semblance of procedure,” complained the judge.
There were murmurs, which got louder as the crowd started to get restless. The majority just wanted the judge to declare Freddie innocent. Morgan feared that they might lose the judge if an immediate compromise was not reached.
“Everyone here respects you, Judge, don’t we, boys?”
Morgan turned around and stared hard at all the men in the room. No one said anything for a moment. Then, at Morgan’s urging, there was mumbled approval.
Satisfied, the judge turned to Morgan. “Choose twelve men who can act as a jury and have them stand to the side.” Morgan looked at the throng of men in front of him, nearly all of whom wanted to volunteer. Morgan eventually chose eleven men and appointed himself foreman. During the process, the noise level had risen again. The judge again asked for silence, Morgan turned to the men and put an erect finger to his lips.
“How do you plead to the killing of Jim Stewart?” The judge questioned the young bartender.
Scott was unsure what to say. He nervously looked at his sweaty palms and, in a quiet voice, resigned himself to his fate. “I guess…I’m guilty!’ There was an audible groan from his audience.
“Freddie, were you provoked?” asked the judge.
Freddie looked puzzled.
“Did Jim Stewart threaten you?” continued the judge.
“He asked me if I had a gun.” Freddie shuddered as he recalled the look on Jim Stewart’s face.
“Were you scared, Freddie?” The judge did his best not to lead the uncomfortable defendant.
“Who’s not scared of Big Jim Stewart?” Freddie exclaimed.
The judge was sure of the young man’s innocence but he needed to coax the right response. “Freddie, did you feel threatened?” continued the judge.
“Yes, I did!”
The judge smiled a little having finally got the right answer.
“Then what did you do, Freddie?”
“I got the owner’s rifle from the store room when Mr. Stewart chased a couple of men out of the bar.” A feeling of emotion started to build up inside Freddie. With tears in his eyes he cried, “I didn’t want to kill him but he went for his gun!” Those nearest to Scott gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and the judge breathed a sigh of relief.
“So, how do you plead, Freddie?” The judge’s voice was softer and kinder. Raising his eye-brows and tilting his head to one side, the judge willed the young man to declare his innocence.
Not sure again of what he should say, Freddie looked at the judge for help. “Not guilty?”
The judge clasped his hand to his mouth. Not wishing to blatantly give the impression of leading the defendant, the judge gently nodded his head. There was evidence that the young man understood, as he wiped the tears from his face.
Caught up in the emotion of the moment, the judge cleared his own throat with a cough or two, and in a clear strong voice said, “Defendant Freddie Scott, how do you plead to the killing of Jim Stewart, guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty your honor!” There were cheers from the assembly.
The judge turned to Morgan and his men. “Members of the jury, you will go away and deliberate your verdict!” Morgan was just about to speak when the judge cut him off. “You WILL deliberate your verdict!” Morgan looked confused, but again before he could talk, the judge defiantly repeated, “You will GO AWAY and deliberate your verdict!”
Out of the corner of his mouth the bewildered Morgan asked in a quiet voice, “For how long?”
Under his breath the judge replied, “For at least five minutes.”
Morgan ushered his men out of the swinging doors. Big Jim Stewart’s body had already been removed. “Nice evening, aren’t it?” Morgan commented. The evening air was very still. The few clouds above glowed pink and red which reflected on the surface of a motionless lake as the sunrays faded behind the western mountains. The other eleven had to agree that it was indeed a beautiful evening, but they were a little confused, just as Morgan had been earlier.
“What are we doing out here?” asked one of the eleven.
“Well, the judge, he likes to do everything proper, so we gotta give the impression that we are thinking whether Freddie told the truth or not.”
Exasperated, one of the others expressed his annoyance. “We don’t need to do that, we all know Jim Stewart for what he was!”
“Downright bully!” chipped in another.
“Yes, but the judge likes it done proper!”
“Waste of drinking time!” added another.
“That it may well be, but we aren’t going to upset the judge anymore. So let’s just stay out here another couple of minutes more and then go in!”
Morgan led the men back in a few minutes later.
The judge didn’t need to hush the crowd, because everyone stopped talking, as the twelve men made their way back to the bar.
Once they were duly lined up, the judge addressed them.
“Has the jury reached their verdict?”
“We have your honor.”
The judge turned to Freddie Scott. “The defendant will be upstanding.” Young Freddie got to his feet and waited. The judge turned back to the jury.
“Is the verdict you have reached, the opinion of you all?”
Morgan turned to the rest of the jury. All eleven nodded in agreement. “It is your honor!”
“And what is the verdict of you all?”
“After very careful consideration, mind you,” Morgan winked at the judge, “and lots of deliberation, as well,” Morgan gave the judge another wink, “we, the jury, find the defendant, not guilty!”
The audience burst out cheering. The judge permitted the cheering for a while and then shouted, “Silence in court!” A shushing sound was
audible from nearly everyone and the room was quiet again.
“Freddie Scott, you have been found not guilty by your peers, and therefore you are now free to go about your business. And your first business is to serve your judge and then your jury a drink!”
Definition of tribune: “A guardian appointed to defend the rights of the plebeians from the patricians.”
The Silver Dollar Saloon in Carson City was warm and noisy and reeked of tobacco and stale beer. A small band of musicians was playing while four ladies on stage picked up their skirts and kicked their gartered legs as high as they could! The girls missed a step or two, but these dancers were not the professionals that you would find in New York or Chicago. For all that, the on-looking men stamped their feet, clapped their hands, and whistled their appreciation. One whiskered man at the bar grinned from ear to ear. He had been steadily draining a bottle of whiskey for the past hour. His face was wrinkled by the summer sun and hardened by the winter winds. He had watery blue eyes, a prominent nose, and tobacco-stained teeth surrounded by a thick moustache and beard.
At the Silver Star Hotel across the road, several people were waiting for the westbound stage to take them up and over the Carson range of the Sierra on the way to Glenbrook. Everyone was getting a little impatient; the stage was already two hours late. It had been snowing all morning, and the frustrated hotel manager, David McGarrity, had used the weather as a convenient excuse. But the delay had nothing to do with weather. His frustration came from knowing that the stage was already in town and that the driver, Hank Monk, was drinking over at the Silver Dollar Saloon.
McGarrity was tolerant of Monk’s drinking and for good reason. Hank Monk was just mad enough to drive a stage and team over the Sierra in any kind of weather. Monk was in the habit of drinking and driving; a bottle always kept him company while he fought the elements and negotiated his team over one of the worst trails in the West. Drunk or not, Hank Monk was held in high esteem by many who traveled over the mountains. When Monk came up behind a slow-moving wagon, the wagons pulled over to let him pass.
Toleration of Monk’s drinking was not to be confused with approval, and it was David McGarrity’s duty to get the passengers boarded without them meeting their drunken stagecoach driver.
With his frustration mounting, McGarrity excused himself from the passengers and marched over to the saloon. Inside the saloon McGarrity found Monk with his arm draped around a drinking buddy, and his free hand firmly wrapped around the neck of a nearly empty bottle. On seeing McGarrity he beamed a smile and confessed he had stopped by for one small tipple! Looking at the bottle, McGarrity asked how long had the tipple taken.
“I have been here barely five minutes!” lied Monk. He turned to his drinking buddy. “Isn’t that right, Gordon?”
“Oh yes,” replied his drunken friend. “Barely five minutes he’s been stood here. He was stood over there before that.”
“But I am as sober as an undertaker,” declared Monk.
Gordon looked whimsical. “As sober as any undertaker I’ll ever see alive!”
“Well, the undertaker can bury his last drink and he can get the stage rolling.” McGarrity folded his arms while his incorrigible friend put the bottle to his lips and finished it. Monk then slapped Gordon on the back and staggered out in to the street.
While Monk found his way to Benton’s Livery Stable, McGarrity returned to the five men and one lady waiting at the hotel. “Lady and gentlemen, if you would like to get ready, I think the stage will be here shortly!” There were a few comments from the passengers, most of which were about the fact it was snowing. “There will be extra blankets for your comfort, and the windows of the coach have flaps, so there is no need for any snow to get inside. Your driver is busy fitting the runners onto the stage.”
“What are runners?” inquired one passenger.
“They are like wooden sleds fixed to the wheels. They are most ingenious! The stage just glides through the snow ….. and, of course, your driver is a master in these kinds of conditions.”
“But isn’t the pass dangerous in this kind of weather?” the lady suggested.
“Well, you should get over to Glenbrook before dark,” McGarrity went on. “Your driver will decide what is safest.”
“Are you talking about that old scoundrel, Hank Monk?” asked a man standing near the door. McGarrity looked a bit sheepish; Monk’s reputation was no secret, but to his surprise the passenger followed up with a compliment. “Aye, I have been fortunate to have been his passenger before. He is a scallywag but a masterful handler of a team and coach.”
“Yes, indeed. Known throughout the West for his love of whiskey,” replied another man seated by the fire. “He’s no respecter of persons, he treats everyone the same……. as Horace Greeley found out, to his chagrin.”
“Yup, I have heard that story too, but I never knew the truth of it,” interjected another male passenger.
Back in the stable, Monk already had the runners fitted, but he was having a little difficulty getting his team in order. Josh, the stable hand, was helping out but not to Monk’s satisfaction.
“You can’t put Agnes as a lead, she is too temperamental. And because she can’t abide heights we’ll put her in at number three. She’ll know where the edge of the trail is better than me; my eyes aren’t so good anymore. Put Drake in at number one, and make Major number two. Then put Hickory alongside Agnes at number four.” We’ll tie Sebastian off on the back Josh, just in case we run into any trouble and we need four extra legs.”
Josh led out a large palomino already saddled and tied him to the back of the coach.
Monk went up to Drake and patted his large head.
“It’s going to be nasty out there today, me handsome. You best be having a drop of warmth.”
Monk poured some whiskey into a pail and gave it to the horse; the stable boy looked on in astonishment as Drake lapped it up. However, Monk did not share his whiskey with any of the other horses.
“What about the others?” the stable lad laughed.
“Horses don’t like whiskey, Josh! Now Drake, he’s a little more than just a horse. He was a Democrat in a previous life!” winked Monk.
Once the horses were realigned in the traces, Josh led the team out of the stable and into the half-light of a snowy midday.
McGarrity watched as the stage pulled up to the hotel. He dashed out ahead of the passengers. “Hank, please hide any bottles you have, the lady passenger is already nervous. You’ve got five gentlemen and one lady and quite a bit of luggage.”
The passengers gathered their things and walked out to the stagecoach. Monk made a few tongue-in-cheek comments as he took some of the heavier bags up to the roof of the stage. McGarrity and the passengers caught a glimpse of a bottle in Monk’s coat pocket. In response to David’s look of thunder, Hank bowed his head and lifted his hands in phony apology.
He pulled the whiskey bottle out of his pocket and made a declaration to the passengers below. “OK, I promise not to touch a drop, if any of you would like to keep me company on top?”
The passengers looked at each other, but no one volunteered.
One of the passengers who knew Monk’s reputation said, “Well, at least none of the horses are drunk!”
“Quite right, hardly any of them,” Monk cajoled. “I’ll keep the flaps up until we turn to go up the mountain; till that time you men can smoke, and lady too, if you’ve a mind to!”
McGarrity ensured that the lady sat in the middle and was well wrapped in blankets.
“Is it going to be safe, Mr. Monk?” asked the nervous lady.
“Well, Ma’am, I have talked to the horses and we are all agreed that it’s going to be difficult but we are all determined. And they have told me as long as I keep singing they are going to do their very best for us. I just got to loosen my vocal chords with a little whiskey and we’ll be in fine fettle.” He gave her his best reassuring smile.
“Your horses talk to you, Mr. Monk?”
“All the time, Ma’am; if we didn’t understand each other, I wouldn’t be able to drive a stage.”
The main street of Carson City had been lined with newly planted poplar trees, which became ever more ghostly as the weather closed in. There were two or three brave souls still out on the street, but no one was out for just a leisurely stroll. Most of the townspeople were in their homes or in the half-dozen saloons on Main Street.
Monk flicked his whip above the heads of the team and the stage jerked. The horses’ strength freed the runners from their icy grip and soon they were into an effortless canter. The stage made surprising progress as bits of snow and ice flew up behind the rear axle. The passengers sat back and hoped the journey wouldn’t be too arduous.
Some three miles out of town, Monk could see a lone rider approaching from the west, frantically waving his hand. Monk stopped the coach, and, while waiting for the rider to get closer, he extracted the bottle of whiskey from his pocket and took a couple of healthy swallows. The passengers were vaguely aware Monk was talking to someone outside but what was being said was lost in the noise of the storm. The next thing they knew, Monk came to the stage door. The passengers were bemused to see their stagecoach driver, he looked like an old man, as his moustache, his beard, and his even eyebrows were caked in snow.
“We have a problem,” Monk shouted above the noise of the wind. “There’s been an avalanche on Kings Canyon and the trail is blocked. It won’t be cleared until the weather improves. We could go on to Genoa and take the Kingsbury Grade but that would be slow going in this kind of weather. By the time we got up the east shore to Glenbrook, it would be well after dark and the horses will be exhausted.”
“Do we have to go to Glenbrook, Mr. Monk?” asked one of the male passengers.
Again Monk shouted above the storm. “Well Benton’s has arranged your rooms at the Tahoe House, and that is where the new team of horses is waiting for us. I can’t be sure of finding a new team elsewhere, and you have no rooms booked on south shore.”
The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe Page 7