“It’s right ’cause I say it’s right,” Poindexter said.
With a sigh of frustration and anger, Beeson gave Poindexter two bills: a twenty and a five.
Ranger Corey Davidson had been with the Texas Rangers since before the war, returning to serve with the Rangers once they were reconstituted after Reconstruction. He was one of the Rangers around whom myths had developed—once he bested four armed men, killing three of them and taking the fourth prisoner.
Today he was in a cantina in the small border town of Los Carrilous. He was looking for a man named Paco Bustamante. Bustamante had robbed a small country store, taking the fifteen-year-old daughter of the store owner hostage. The nude body of the young girl had been found later that same day.
Davidson was the only gringo in the cantina, but that didn’t elicit too much attention. Gringos were frequent visitors to the cantina, sometimes because they had developed a taste for tequila, but more often their tastes were somewhat more ribald and ran toward the dark-eyed putas who worked the cantina.
Davidson held up his badge.
“I am a Texas Ranger,” he said loudly. “I am looking for Paco Bustamante.”
No one responded, though Davidson saw a few of them glance nervously toward the back of the room. Davidson followed the glance and saw a Mexican against the wall was dumping the bargirl from his lap. She screamed in surprise and fright as the Mexican came up with a pistol in his hand.
Davidson brought his own gun up, even as the Mexican’s gun burst the firing-cap. The Mexican’s bullet hit the deck of cards some of the patrons had been playing with, sending them scattering. By now everyone in the place had dived for cover, leaving only Davidson and Bustamante standing. But Bustamante didn’t stand for long, because Davidson fired before the Mexican could pull the trigger a second time.
Bustamante staggered forward, then crashed through a nearby table. Glasses and bottles tumbled and tequila spilled. The gun smoke drifted slowly up to the ceiling, then spread out in a wide, nostril-burning cloud. Davidson looked around the room quickly to see if anyone else might represent danger, but he saw only the faces of the customers, and they showed fear, awe, and surprise.
When Davidson returned to Austin, he had a telegram waiting for him. The telegram was from Eb Smalley, a man who had served in his regiment during the war. The telegram asked him to please come to Sorrento to look into conditions there. Because Davidson considered the telegram to be a personal, rather than an official, request, he did not notify his superiors of his intention; therefore, his visit would be in a nonofficial capacity.
When Davidson reached Sorrento, he rode directly to Smalley’s store, dismounted, then went inside. Smalley, who was with a customer, saw Ranger Davidson come in.
“Mr. Deckert, would you take care of Mr. Evans, please?” Smalley said to his clerk. “I see an old friend.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Smalley,” Hodge Deckert said as, smiling, he moved in to tend to the customer’s needs.
Smalley wiped his hands and advanced toward Ranger Davidson; then, with a huge smile, he extended his hand.
“Colonel Davidson, sir, how good it is to see you.”
“Hello, Major Smalley. I got your telegram. Would you like to tell me what’s going on in this town?”
“I’ll tell you what is going on in this town,” Smalley said. “Judge Dawes, Prosecutor Gillespie, Sheriff Poindexter, and his deputies have turned this town into hell. The judge is using the hangman’s rope as a means of legal murder, and they are bleeding the town dry with illegal taxes and fines.”
“Have you got any proof of this? I mean, I believe you, Eb, but when you are dealing with officials like a judge, sheriff, and prosecuting attorney, you are going to have to have some sort of backup.”
“Come with me to see Harold Denham. He’s the newspaper editor, and he has been keeping a really close record.”
On their way to the newspaper, Smalley stopped by Doc Gunter’s office, inviting him to join them.
“I have to admit,” Ranger Davidson said half an hour later, after he had examined all the material Denham had collected, “that this is pretty damning. And you say O’Dell didn’t get a trial by jury?”
“The judge, prosecutor, and sheriff all claim that he said he didn’t want one. But, Ranger Davidson, I was in the court when they brought him in. He had no idea that the trial could end in such a way. In fact, I believe he welcomed the trial because he thought he would be able to get support from the court on recovering the money that was owed him,” Denham said.
“This article suggests that Judge Dawes is a brother-in-law to the man who owed O’Dell money.”
“I’m doing more than suggesting it. I’m coming right out and saying it.”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Let me show you something,” Denham said. He opened a drawer from one of the cabinets in his composing room, then took out two pieces of stiff card material that were tied with a strip of cloth. Undoing the cloth, he removed the top card, disclosing a photograph of a document.
“What is this?” Ranger Davidson asked.
“This, Ranger Davidson, is proof that Dumey is Judge Dawes’s brother-in-law. It is a photograph of the wedding license. You see here that the woman’s maiden name is Lila Dawes. And you see here that the judge was not only the issuing authority, but is also listed as ‘brother to the female applicant.’”
“Judge Dawes should have recused himself from the O’Dell case,” Ranger Davidson said.
“Yes, that’s what I think as well.”
“You did well to send for me, Eb.”
“So, what are you going to do? How are you going to handle it?”
“The judge can only be removed by the state supreme court ethics committee, or by impeachment.”
“What about the sheriff? I’ve shown you a list of his violations as well.”
“Ah, now that I can do something about,” Ranger Davidson said. “I can arrest him. That will do two things. It will take away Judge Dawes’s ‘army’ so to speak, and, in the ensuing trial, we will be able to turn up enough evidence to use against the judge in impeachment.”
“Are you going to arrest the sheriff?” Denham asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if you ought to do that.”
“What do you mean? I thought that was what you wanted.”
“Yes, I do want it. But the sheriff has at least two deputies around him all the time. I don’t know if it would be all that good of an idea for you to go up against him all by yourself. Shouldn’t you get some help?”
“I’m all the help I’ll need,” Ranger Davidson said confidently.
Davidson stood up, loosened his pistol in the holster, then left the newspaper office. “I take it he will be in the sheriff’s office?”
“You will find him in one of the saloons. More than likely it will be the Long Trail saloon; that’s the one he frequents the most,” Denham said.
“Are you saying the sheriff spends all his time in a saloon?”
“Yeah, and why not?” Smalley added. “He drinks free, he eats free, and anytime he wants one of the girls, why, she is free as well.”
“That’s using his badge for personal gain,” Ranger Davidson said. “That’s all I need to arrest him.”
Ranger Davidson left the newspaper office and started toward the Long Trail.
“I wish he would get some help before he does something like this,” Denham said.
“He was a ranger before the war, and I served in the war with him,” Smalley said. “He is one of the bravest, if not the bravest, men I have ever known.”
“I don’t question his courage,” Denham said. “But I do question his wisdom.”
A game of checkers was being played by two gray-bearded men in front of Travers’s Feed and Seed Store, watched over by half a dozen kibitzers. Luke Travers was standing at the front door looking out onto the street when he saw someone walking from the newspaper office toward t
he Long Trail saloon. He recognized the badge that is unique to the Texas Rangers.
“Boys, that there is a Texas Ranger,” he said.
“What’s a Texas Ranger doin’ in Sorrento?”
“I think Mr. Smalley sent for him,” Travers said.
“To deal with the sheriff?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“Good. I hope they lock the son of a bitch up and throw the key away.”
“Crown me,” one of the players said.
The shopkeeper who was running the dry goods store came through his front door and began vigorously sweeping the wooden porch. His broom did little but raise the dust to swirl about, then fall back down again. He brushed a sleeping dog off the porch, but even before he went back inside, the dog reclaimed his position, curled around comfortably, and, within a moment, was asleep again. Like Luke Travers, the shopkeeper recognized the badge as a Texas Ranger badge, and he stayed out on his front porch watching until the ranger reached the saloon.
When Ranger Davidson reached the saloon, he stood out front for a moment.
In a nearby building, a curtain was pulled to one side and a curious onlooker came to the window.
Somewhere down the street a dog started barking.
A fly buzzed past Davidson’s ear, did a few circles, then descended quickly to a freshly deposited horse apple and was joined almost immediately by a dozen others.
Ranger Davidson pushed through the batwing doors, then stepped to one side so that a wall was at his back. At the bar, with a glass of beer in front of him, stood a big man with a deformed eye. Davidson would have recognized him from his description, even if he hadn’t been wearing a sheriff’s badge.
“Well, if it ain’t a Texas Ranger,” Poindexter said. “Welcome to my town, Ranger. Step up to the bar and have a drink. The bartender don’t charge nothin’ for lawmen. Do you, bartender?”
Ranger Davidson made no movement toward the bar.
“Well, maybe you ain’t a drinkin’ man,” Poindexter said. “That’s all right. Look around at the girls. See one that you find pleasin’? Take her. The girls, they don’t charge the lawmen nothin’, neither.”
Davidson remained in place.
“Well, if you don’t want a drink, and you don’t want a whore, what are you doin’ in here? What do you want?” Poindexter asked.
“I’m putting you under arrest,” Ranger Davidson said.
“What?” Poindexter replied in surprise. Then he laughed. “You’re funnin’ with me, ain’t you, Ranger?”
“This is no joke, Poindexter. You are under arrest for malfeasance in office.”
“Mal . . . mal . . . what? What is that?”
“It’s enough to get you twenty years,” Davidson said. “Like I said, Poindexter, you are under arrest. Take off your badge, and drop your gun belt.”
“You got that a little backwards, ain’t you, Ranger? I’m the sheriff here. You are in my town and my county. I’m putting you under arrest for threatening an officer of the law.”
Poindexter turned to face Ranger Davidson. “Now, you drop your gun belt.”
“Poindexter, my authority comes from the State of Texas. Are you saying that county authority supersedes state authority?”
“Look over here, Ranger!” Deputy Sharp called. When Davidson looked toward him, he saw Sharp was standing near the piano, holding a double-barrel shotgun pointed directly at him.
“If you so much as touch your gun, I’ll blow your head off.”
Poindexter drew his pistol and pointed it at Davidson. “Well now, Mr. Texas Ranger, you seem to have gotten yourself into quite a little bind here. There are two guns pointed at you.”
“That doesn’t change anything,” Davidson said. “You are still under arrest.”
“Draw, Ranger!” Poindexter shouted. And even as Poindexter yelled, he pulled the trigger. Sharp pulled both triggers at nearly the same time.
When Davidson heard Poindexter shout, he realized that he had no choice but to draw his own gun. He was fast, fast enough to get a shot off even as both Poindexter and Sharp fired at him. Davidson was hit by Poindexter’s bullet and a double load of buckshot from the shotgun Sharp was holding. The shots slammed Davidson backward, crashing through the batwing doors and falling flat on his back on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. His chest looked like raw meat from the wounds, and blood gushed out to soak the boards around him.
There was a moment of silence, then one of the patrons nearest the door ventured a peek over the top of the batwings. He turned and shouted back to the others.
“He’s dead, folks. He’s deader than a doornail.”
“Bartender,” Poindexter said.
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“I’ll be havin’ another drink now.”
“Dead?” Smalley said when someone brought him the news. “Davidson is dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
Smalley ran his hand through his hair. “I would’ve thought he could handle Poindexter.”
“He probably could have handled Poindexter if it had just been him. But Sharp was there, too, and Sharp got the drop on him with a double-barreled Greener. Then Poindexter pulled his gun, and the next thing you know he was yellin’ at the ranger to draw. Well, of course by then there weren’t naught the ranger could do but try and draw his own gun. Even then, he managed to get it out of his holster before both Poindexter and Sharp unloaded on him. He didn’t have a chance.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What do you mean, you’re trying me for murder?” Poindexter asked Prosecutor Gillespie.
“It’s for your own protection,” Gillespie replied.
“I don’t see how me bein’ tried for murder could be for my own protection.”
“That’s because you don’t understand the law,” Gillespie said. “If you are tried and found innocent, no other judge can ever try you again for that same crime. It’s called double jeopardy.”
Poindexter smiled, though it was difficult to see because of his deformed face. “Well I’ll be damned. That’s the way it works, huh?”
“Yes.”
“What about Sharp? He shot him, too. Fact is, with that double load of buckshot, why it’s more ’n likely that he’s the one that actual kilt the ranger.”
“If you are found innocent by way of justifiable homicide, then there will be no need to charge Sharp.”
Poindexter was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get it done.” He took his pistol belt off, lay it on his desk, then walked back to let himself into one of the jail cells. He lay down on the bunk and crossed his hands behind his head. “Until the trial starts, I’ll just be my own prisoner.” He laughed. “I’m goin’ to take me a little nap now. You can wake me up when it’s time for supper.”
“I’ll wake you up long before then,” Gillespie said. “I plan to have the trial today.”
The trial began less than two hours after the shooting had occurred. Because of the sensational aspect of a shooting between two lawmen, the courthouse was full, despite the short notice.
They fidgeted about as they watched the jury pool take their seats.
“There’s nobody new on the jury,” Denham said to Smalley.
“It’s how Dawes packs the court,” Smalley replied.
Burt Gillespie, with a few questions, narrowed the jury down to twelve men.
“Your honor, the jury is empaneled,” Gillespie said.
“Very good. We are going to need someone to represent the defendant.”
“Your Honor, if it please the court . . . I would like to make the petition that I be temporarily excused from the position of prosecutor, so that I might defend Sheriff Poindexter.”
“Hmm,” Judge Dawes mused, stroking his chin. “All right,” he finally said. “But that means I will have to appoint a new prosecutor.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” Judge Dawes replied. “Deputy Sharp, please locate James Earl Van
Arsdale, and tell him he has been appointed as prosecutor for this case.”
“James Earl Van Arsdale? Hell, Judge, he’s a drunk!” Deputy Sharp said.
There was a smattering of nervous laughter from the gallery.
“He is also the only other lawyer in town. Locate him, please, and bring him here, to the courthouse.”
The deputy smiled broadly, looked over at the sheriff, then back toward Judge Dawes. “Yes, sir.”
“Van Arsdale?” Denham said to Doc Gunter. “James Earl Van Arsdale? Is the judge serious?”
“Think about it, Harold,” Smalley said. “If you want to make certain the case turns out the way you want, what better way to ensure it than to pack the jury, then select a drunk to act as a prosecutor?”
“I doubt that Van Arsdale has even heard about the shooting,” Doc Gunter replied.
The gallery fidgeted as they waited for Van Arsdale to arrive so he could assume the duties of prosecution attorney. During that time, Gillespie and his client spoke quietly at the defense table as they prepared their case.
A few minutes later Deputy Sharp returned to the courtroom with James Earl Van Arsdale in tow. Van Arsdale looked at the crowd in the courtroom, and it was obvious by the vacant look in his eyes and the expression on his face that he had no idea what was going on.
“Mr. Van Arsdale, approach the bench, please,” Judge Dawes directed.
Hesitantly, cautiously, Van Arsdale did as instructed.
“Mr. Van Arsdale, raise your right hand.”
When Van Arsdale didn’t respond quickly enough, the deputy raised his hand for him.
“Do you, James Earl Van Arsdale, solemnly swear you will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent upon you as prosecuting attorney under the Constitution and laws of the United States and of the State of Texas, So help you God?”
“What? I’m to be the prosecutor?”
“Counselor, the only answer I will accept is yes, or no,” Judge Dawes said sternly.
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