In redirect, Hagen tried to get Frakes to say that he couldn’t be sure about the boots, that maybe one of them could have been wearing boots like the boots the defendant was wearing, but Frakes couldn’t be budged.
“They was all six wearin’ scruffed-up boots,” he insisted.
When the prosecution finished its case, Judge Craig invited Smoke to call any witnesses he might have for his defense.
“Your Honor, in order to call any witnesses for defense, I would have to bring some people here from Big Rock.”
“Could any of the people from Big Rock testify that you were somewhere else on the day of the robbery?” Judge Craig asked.
“No, sir. They would be more on the order of character witnesses,” Smoke said.
“I see. Mr. Jensen, is there any witness, anywhere, who could testify that they were with you on the sixth of this month?”
Smoke shook his head. “No, Your Honor,” he said. “I was on the trail for that entire day. I did not see a soul until I encountered the bank robbers.”
Craig removed his glasses and polished them vigorously for a moment. Then he put them back on.
“If you cannot find a witness who can testify in direct contradiction to any of the witnesses the prosecution has brought to the stand, then I see no reason for granting a stay on this trial. I’ll give you half an hour to compose your thoughts. Then I will expect you to make your closing arguments.” Judge Craig slammed the gavel down on the desk. “This court stands in recess for one half hour.”
As Smoke sat back down at his table, he saw the prosecutor summon Pike over to him. Hagen and the deputy spoke for a moment, then Pike left.
“Do you want me to help you with your closing argument?” Jackson asked.
Smoke shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m sure you mean the best, Mr. Jackson. But seeing as this is my life we’re talking about here, I think I’d feel better if I did it myself.”
“All right,” Jackson said. He got up and started to leave. Then he turned and looked back at Smoke. “Mr. Jensen, don’t try to make a speech. Just talk to the folks in the jury as if you were telling a friend what happened.”
Smoke nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate the tip.”
All too soon, it seemed, Marshal Turnball stepped up to the front of the room.
“All rise,” he shouted.
Again, the gallery stood as Judge Craig came back into the court and took his seat.
“Mr. Jensen,” Craig said after everyone was seated. “You may begin your closing argument.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Smoke said. He turned to face the jury.
“I must say that I am a little surprised that nobody in this town knows me,” he began. “I guess this is a little far from Big Rock, so it’s out of my home area. But I am well known back home. And, I’m proud to say, that I am known as a man of honesty and integrity. One of my closest friends in Big Rock is Sheriff Carson. I own a ranch there, a rather substantial ranch, and I am what you might regard as a pillar of the community.
“Now, normally, it isn’t my style to blow my own horn, so to speak. But, since I don’t have anyone over here to blow it for me, well, I reckon I don’t have much choice.” Smoke smiled broadly, and tried not to let it show when nobody returned the smile.
“I did not rob the bank here. I did not kill Mr. Clark. I did not know Mr. Clark, but from some of the testimony I’ve heard today, I’m sure he was a very good man. I can understand how having a good man killed so senselessly could get a town upset. But wouldn’t it be better for you to find the person who actually did it?
“I wish I could tell you that I know who did it, but I don’t. I was set upon by six men, two of whom were wearing shirts identical to the one prosecution is using as his evidence. While I was distracted, one of them knocked me out, and when I came to, I saw that my own shirt was gone, and I was wearing that shirt.” He pointed toward the shirt.
“I was angry that someone had stolen my shirt, and puzzled as to why they would do it. But when Marshal Turnball and his posse came along a little later, I learned the reason. One of the bank robbers, perhaps even the killer, put this shirt on me to throw suspicion my way.
“Before you vote on your verdict, I want you to think about two things. Number one, nobody saw the face of the second man who was wearing the plaid shirt, and number two . . .” Smoke held out his foot. “We heard Mr. Frakes say that not one of the six was wearing boots like these.”
Satisfied that he had done his best, Smoke sat down. Just as he did so, he saw Pike, smiling from ear to ear, come back into the school cum courthouse. He was carrying a bag, which he showed to Hagen. The two spoke about it for a moment, then looked over at Smoke.
Pike chuckled.
“Mr. Hagen?” the judge said.
“Please the court, I’d like one minute,” Hagen said.
“Make it quick.”
Hagen took the sack over to Frakes and showed it to him. Frakes looked into the bag, then nodded.
“Thank you,” Hagen said. Hagen returned to the front of the room, facing the jury.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” he began. “In Kirby Jensen’s closing argument, you heard him say that he owned a large ranch near Big Rock. That is true, he does own a large ranch. However, according to papers found on him when he was arrested, that ranch is encumbered by a mortgage note of two thousand dollars, due in just over one month. If he fails to make that payment, he will lose his ranch.
“That, I submit, is incentive enough to make an otherwise honest rancher rob a bank.
“Where is that money, you may ask? Why was it not found on him? That is a good question, and the answer is as simple and as old as the sin of thievery itself. There is no honor among thieves, and he had none of the money when he was arrested because Jensen was beaten and robbed by his own fellow thieves.
“Did Kirby Jensen kill Mr. Clark? There were four bullets found in Mr. Clark’s body, so it is likely that one of the bullets was his. But according to the law, it doesn’t matter whether any of those bullets came from Jensen’s gun or not. According to the law, everyone who was there is equally guilty of his murder.
“Now there comes only the question, was he there? You have heard witness after witness testify that they saw this shirt on the back of one of the killers. You also heard Billy Frakes testify that he saw the faces of the two men when they rode into town, and, having seen the faces, cannot rule out the possibility that Kirby Jensen was one of them. And not even Jensen can produce one witness who can testify that he wasn’t there.
“So, what did Jensen do? He showed Billy Frakes a pair of fancy boots, and asked if any of the robbers were wearing such boots. Billy Frakes said no.”
Hagen reached down into the sack and pulled out a pair of boots.
Smoke felt his heart sink. He had brought along those old and worn boots, intending to wear them to keep his better boots from getting scuffed. But they were uncomfortable as riding boots, so he kept them rolled up in his blankets.
“Mr. Pike took these very boots from Kirby Jensen’s bedroll about half an hour ago,” Hagen said, continuing with his closing argument. “You all saw me show these boots to Billy Frakes. Billy just told me that, if need be, he is prepared to testify that the two men in the red and black plaid shirt were wearing boots exactly like these.
“Gentlemen of the jury, your task is solemn, but it is simple. Your task is solemn, because you are charged, by your fellow citizens, with the responsibility of bringing justice to our fair town. But your task is simple, because there is overwhelming and irrefutable evidence to help you come to the right decision. And the right decision is to find Kirby Jensen guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Hagen turned and started back toward his seat.
“Good job, Hagen, you got the son of a bitch!” a man shouted, and several others cheered and applauded.
It took Judge Craig several seconds of banging the gavel until he was able to restore order in the court.
Finally, when the gallery was subdued, he charged the jury.
The jury filed out through the back door of the schoolhouse, then gathered under a shade tree to discuss the case. They returned in less than half an hour.
“Who is the foreman of the jury?” Judge Craig asked.
“I am, Your Honor. The name is Jeff Colfax.”
“Mr. Colfax, has the jury reached a verdict?”
The jury foreman leaned over to spit a wad of tobacco into a spittoon before he answered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We’ve reached a verdict, Your Honor,” he said.
“Would you publish the verdict, please?”
“We, the jury, find this here fella”—he pointed to Smoke—“guilty of murder and bank robbin’.”
“So say you all?”
“So say we all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Foreman,” the judge said. “The jury is dismissed. “Mr. Turnball, you are hereby relieved of your duty as court bailiff, and may resume your duties as city marshal. Now, Marshal Turnball, bring your prisoner before the bench to hear his sentencing.”
Marshal Turnball stepped over to the defense table and looked down at Smoke.
“Stand up and hold your hands out,” he ordered.
Smoke did as he was directed, and Turnball clamped the manacles on his wrists before leading him up to stand before the judge.
“It is the sentence of this court that a gallows be constructed in the city street so that all may bear witness to the inevitable result that befalls a person bent on following the path of crime. Then, on Thursday next, at ten o’clock of the morning hour, you will be removed from your jail cell and taken to this public gallows where a noose will be placed around your neck, a lever will be thrown, a trapdoor will fall from under your feet, and you will be hurled into eternity.
“May God have mercy on your evil, vile, and worthless soul, sir, because I have none.”
The judge ended his pronouncement with the banging of his gavel, and Marshal Turnball and one of his deputies led Smoke out of the court and down to the jail.
Chapter Twelve
“One hundred dollars!” the big man with the white, handlebar mustache shouted above the din in the saloon. “I’ll bet one hundred dollars that no man can stay on Cannonball for one whole minute.”
Pearlie and Cal were on their way back to Big Rock, but had stopped in the town of Jasper. They were having a quiet beer together in the Good Nature Saloon when they heard the offer.
“That ain’t much of a bet, Stacey,” one of the others in the saloon said. “Hell, there ain’t nobody ever stayed on him for more’n ten seconds. Can’t nobody stay on him for a full minute.”
“I’ll try it, if you give odds,” another cowboy said.
“What kind of odds?” Stacey asked.
“Two to one,” the cowboy answered. “I’ll put up twenty. If I can stay on for a whole minute, you’ll pay me forty.”
“You got twenty dollars, cowboy?” Stacey asked.
“I got twenty,” the cowboy answered.
“Take ’im up on it, Stacey. I’d like to see if anyone really could ride Cannonball.”
“Yeah, give us a show,” another shouted.
Stacey stroked his mustache for a second; then he nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Put up the twenty dollars. Let’s see what you can do.”
“Yahoo!” one of the others shouted, and everyone poured out of the saloon to see the ride.
“Come on, Cal, let’s go see this,” Pearlie said, standing and tugging on Cal’s arm.
There had been no more than twenty men in the saloon when the challenge was issued, but as they started down the street toward the corral, word spread through the rest of the town so that many more joined. By the time they reached the corral, which was at the far end of the street from the Good Nature Saloon, there were nearly one hundred spectators.
Pearlie and Cal found a seat on the top rail of the corral fence and watched as they saddled Cannonball.
Cannonball was a big horse with a well-defined musculature. He was also a very aggressive horse, fighting even against being saddled.
“Hey, Stacey, if Pete can’t do it, can I give it a try?” one of the cowboys shouted.
“Have you got ’ny money?” Stacey replied.
“I’ve got money.”
“All right, you’re next.”
When, at last, they got the saddle on Cannonball, Pete climbed up on the top rung of the fence and crouched there, ready. Pete nodded toward the two men who were handling Cannonball, and they led the horse over.
Pete pounced onto the horse’s back, and the two handlers let go, then jumped out of the way. Cannonball exploded away from the fence, then went through a series of gyrations, bucking, twisting, coming down stiff-legged, and ducking his head. Pete was thrown in less than ten seconds.
“Whoowee, that’s some horse!” someone shouted.
“My turn,” the one who had put in the bid to be second said. But like Pete, he was thrown in a matter of seconds.
“I’ll try it for twenty dollars,” another said, and Pearlie and Cal watched as the third rider was thrown even faster than the first two.
“Look,” Cal said to Pearlie as still a fourth man tried to ride the horse. “See how he ducks his head to the left there, then sort of leans into it? If a man would sort of jerk his head back to the right, he could stop that.”
“You think you could ride him, Cal?” Pearlie asked.
Cal didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched another rider try and get thrown.
“Yeah,” Cal said. “I think I could.”
“Do you think you could a hundred dollars worth?”
“Ha! Are you kidding? I don’t have a hundred dollars.”
“I do. I’ll give it to you to bet, if you think you can ride him.”
Cal shook his head. “No, Pearlie, that’s your money. That’s money you said you were going to give to Smoke and Miss Sally.”
“Yes, it is,” Pearlie said. “But if you could win two hundred dollars more, don’t you think that would be even better?”
“Well, yeah, sure, but . . .”
“Do you think you can ride him, or don’t you?”
Cal looked at the horse just as it threw another rider.
“Yeah,” Cal said. “I think I can ride him.”
The two wranglers grabbed Cannonball and brought him back to the end of the corral.
“Anybody else?” Stacey called, holding up a fistful of money, all of it won from would-be riders within the last few minutes.
Nobody responded.
“This is your last chance, boys. Anybody else want to try before we put Cannonball back in his stall?”
There was still no answer.
“All right, men, get the saddle off him,” Stacey said to his wrangler.
“Here, Cal, here’s the money,” Pearlie said.
Cal hesitated but for one second; then he called out loudly.
“I’ll have a go at it for one hundred dollars,” he said.
Several had started to leave the corral, but when they heard Cal call out, they stopped and came back.
“What did you say?” Stacey asked.
Call held up the one hundred dollars that Pearlie had given him.
“I said I would ride him,” Cal said. “And I’m betting one hundred dollars that I can stay on him for an entire minute.”
“Who is that fella?” one of the men in the crowd asked.
“I don’t know,” another answered. “I think he must’ve just come into town. I ain’t never seen him afore now.”
“Where did you get a hundred dollars?” Stacey asked.
“What difference does it make where I got it?” Cal answered. “You didn’t ask anybody else where they got the money.”
“And you want to wager that one hundred dollars that you can stay on Cannonball for a minute?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s one
whole minute, mind you,” Stacey said. “Not fifty-nine seconds.”
“An entire minute,” Cal agreed.
“All right, I’ll bet you a hundred,” Stacey said.
“Huh-uh,” Cal replied, shaking his head.
“What do you mean, huh-uh? That’s what you’re wantin’, ain’t it? To bet a hundred dollars?”
“I am betting one hundred dollars,” Cal said. “You are betting two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred dollars is a lot of money,” Stacey said.
“The boy’s right, though, Stacey,” Pete said. Pete was the cowboy who was the first to try to ride Cannonball. “That’s what you said. You said you was givin’ two to one. If the boy bets a hunnert and he stays on the horse for a whole minute, you give him two hunnert.”
“Pete’s right,” one of the others called out.
“All right,” Stacey said. “All right, it don’t matter none. There ain’t no way this boy, or anyone, can stay on Cannonball for a whole minute.”
“Ride ’im, boy!” someone shouted.
“Yeah! Let’s see you take Stacey’s money!” another called.
“Who is this fella Stacey anyway?” Pearlie asked as several men gathered around Cal to offer him their best wishes.
“He owns the mercantile here in town,” someone said. “He got rich during the winter by sellin’ his goods at about three or four times what they was worth.”
“They ain’t nobody here but what wants to see him ride that horse and take some of his money away from him,” Pete said to Pearlie.
“Well, come on, boy!” Stacey called. “Are you goin’ to ride or not?”
“I’ll ride,” Cal said. He gave the one hundred dollars back to Pearlie. “Hold onto it.”
“Well, get over here and do it,” Stacey said.
“Ride ’im, cowboy,” the others said by way of encouragement.
Cal walked down to the other end of the corral, climbed up on the fence, then dropped down onto Cannonball’s back.
Cannonball leaped away from the fence, throwing Cal into the air as he did so. The others groaned as they saw the saddle slipping to one side. Then Cal did an amazing thing. Instead of coming back down on the saddle, he came back on the horse’s hindquarters, just behind the saddle. He held on as the saddle slipped off; then he moved forward and riding bareback, stayed with the animal.
Betrayal of the Mountain Man Page 10