by Lee Lejeune
Old Sam’s words of wisdom proved sound, and Jacob’s forebodings were also confirmed. The prosecution fell apart like crumbling cheese, and when the jury retired to consider their verdict they were out for less than half an hour.
‘Have you agreed on your verdict?’ the judge asked when they returned.
‘Yes, we have, sir,’ the foreman replied.
‘Do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?’
There was a dramatic pause before the foreman announced firmly, ‘Not guilty, sir!’
Jacob and Marie rode back to Buffalo feeling somewhat depressed. And Sam sat high on the seat of his painted wagon. He was singing quietly to himself as though they had won a great victory. The eternal optimist!
‘So, what happens when we get back to town?’ he asked.
Jacob and Marie, who were riding side by side, looked at one another and smiled.
‘When we get back to town,’ Jacob said, ‘we make ready to get married as soon as possible.’
‘So,’ Sam chuckled, ‘every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.’
Marie was laughing. ‘It’s a pity you’re not in holy orders, Sam. Otherwise we’d ask you to tie the knot for us.’
Sam smiled down at her through his Santa Claus beard. ‘That would indeed be an honour, Miss Silversmith. Of course, I could always give you a blessing for what it’s worth.’
‘That would be worth a whole gold mine of marriage ceremonies,’ Jacob said.
In the town there were several men of the cloth: a Jesuit named Father Louie, a Baptist minister who was well known for being somewhat straight-laced, and a preacher from England who was popular but somewhat lax in his doctrinal approach. Neither the bride nor the groom had firm ideas about religion, so they chose the preacher from England who was a tall rangy character with red whiskers and a friendly wife. Angus Modify, the preacher, lived in a somewhat ramshackle house on the outskirts of town where he held weekly services.
When Jacob and Marie knocked on the door they thought the house might fall down, but the door was opened by the friendly wife, a small, plain young woman with an honest currant-bun face.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked cheerfully, but somewhat timorously.
‘Is the reverend in?’ Jacob asked.
‘Yes, he is,’ she replied. ‘It’s Miss Silversmith and Mr Merriweather, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Jacob said. ‘You’re very observant, Mrs Modify.’
The Reverend Angus Modify appeared immediately. ‘Please come in,’ he said cheerily. ‘And welcome to our humble abode, such as it is.’
It was indeed humble. They went into a long room with a desk at one end and a general living space at the other.
‘Please sit down.’ He waved towards two plain chairs and they sat down. He beamed benignly at Marie. ‘So you want me to marry you?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Jacob said.
The Reverend Angus Modify was very young, certainly no older than twenty-five, and his face glowed with missionary zeal. ‘Well, it will be an honour, Mr Merriweather, a great honour.’
‘Indeed!’ his wife crowed from the other end of the room.
The wedding took place after a week, without undue ceremony, or so they hoped! Jacob asked Running Deer to be his best man, and, although Running Deer had little idea of what that entailed, he agreed. Marie asked Sophie, Running Deer’s wife, to be her lady in waiting, and Mrs Modify, who dressed like a Puritan, advised her on the appropriate attire. The Modifys owned a somewhat dilapidated organ from which she coaxed some kind of simple hymn tune. Old Sam produced an ancient fiddle, which he played with more gusto than musicianship. He also insisted on giving a somewhat overlong blessing full of all kinds of reference, some biblical and others somewhat more profane.
The Reverend Modify conducted the ceremony with great aplomb. He hadn’t had so many people in his congregation since the beginning of his ministry, but it boded well for the future.
The people of the town turned out in their hundreds. Life was real hard in the West and everyone enjoyed a good wedding and a good funeral, in fact any opportunity to rejoice and get drunk! So the Reverend threw open the doors of his modest abode and Mrs Modify thumped away on the clapped-out organ, and Old Sam even took his fiddle out into the street where folk danced and sang bawdy songs well into the night.
But there was one notable absence – two, in fact: Sheriff Olsen and his wife. It seemed that Olsen had developed a fever, and his wife was caring for him at home where they must have heard the noise!
Next morning the whole town seemed to be asleep, quite a few of the menfolk snoring on the sidewalk or even on Main Street itself, such are the ways of mankind!
Old Sam was philosophical. He had slept in his painted wagon as usual and was walking among the living dead, bestowing blessings left and right. Then he saw Jacob and Marie emerging from Marie’s cabin.
‘Well, now good folks,’ he said, ‘So you’ve had your honeymoon. Where will you go for your vacation?’
‘We’ve already decided about that,’ Jacob said. ‘As soon as Marie’s sold her house, we’re going West to Oregon where the apples grow red as the sun at sundown in high summer.’
‘Well, well,’ Sam smiled. ‘Mr Merriweather, I do believe marriage must be good for you since it’s turning you into a poet. And what will you do in Oregon when you get there?’
This time Marie spoke. ‘Well now, Mr Critchley, it might be a long way ahead but I aim to run a good hotel, and Jacob here. . . .’ She paused and looked at Jacob.
Jacob nodded. ‘And if I can scrape enough greenbacks together I aim to start my own law business.’
‘Well, sir, I hope you succeed. There’s a great need for honest lawyers west of the Missouri river.’ He wagged his Santa Claus beard. ‘And what about a family? Do you have plans to start a family?’
‘Who knows?’ Jacob said with an enigmatic smile. ‘Who knows?’
Old Sam had said, ‘Davidson will meet his righteous fate sooner or later,’ and he was right, and it came sooner than anyone had expected. Less than three months after the trial a masked rider came to the door of the Davidson ranch house. When the black servant girl answered the door, he said, ‘Get out of my way, girl, unless you want to get yourself shot!’
The girl had turned and fled screaming, and Arnold had appeared, gun in hand. He fired at the masked intruder but missed. The intruder shot him in the heart and then pumped two shots into his head.
‘Take that, you yellow bastard!’ the intruder shouted. Then he walked through the living-room under the vulgar chandeliers and emptied his gun at the vulgar furniture. Then he drew another gun and shouted, ‘Where are you, Jack Davidson, you yellow-livered bloodsucker?’
Davidson had been trying to hide behind a table, but he rose in panic and tried to climb the stairs, which was a big mistake. The gunman laughed, levelled his second gun and shot Davidson in the back. Davidson fell forward and slithered down in his own blood to the bottom of the stairs.
As the gunman stood over him, Davidson tried to turn his head. ‘Mercy!’ he cried.
‘Mercy!’ the gunman mocked. ‘This is mercy, a bullet in your brain!’
And he fired twice into Davidson’s head. Then he turned and laughed as he shot out the chandeliers.
A few days later an article appeared in the local news sheet. ‘Rich rancher Jack Davidson shot to death in his own ranch house by an unknown gunman.’
No one knew who the masked gunman was, and though there was much speculation, no one ever found out.
Marie managed to sell her property in town, and she and Jacob Merriweather rode West to Oregon. She did set up in the hotel business, where they sold good honest food and drink. And Jacob started his own law firm, which became well known throughout the territory. Marie and Jacob had three children, two girls and a boy, Jacob Junior.
Old Sam stayed in the River Platte region where he plied his healing and preaching trade until the end of his days.