The Bisbee Massacre

by J. Roberts

  Hatch frowned.

  “What’s the word around town, Bob?” Dodge asked.

  “Gonna be lots of folks at the jury selection tomorrow,” Hatch said, “and at the trial. We’re gonna have to collect guns at the door.”

  “Why?” Dodge asked. “You know somebody’s gonna smuggle in a gun or two.”

  “Somebody’s bound to try somethin’, Fred,” Hatch said. “The old man or the Hudson hands. Don’t know what they’ve been waitin’ for, but they gotta figure it’ll be easier to break him out of court than out of jail.”

  “We was just talkin’ about that, Bob,” Charley Smith said.

  “Well, I don’t see how we can allow a courtroom full of guns,” Hatch said.

  “Okay, Bob,” Dodge said. “We’ll collect guns.”

  “Okay,” Hatch said, putting his cup down. “I’ll tell the mayor.”

  “The mayor?” Dodge asked.

  “And the district attorney,” Hatch said. “That’s what they wanted.”

  He headed for the door.

  “And Charley?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Make a fresh pot of coffee, and try to leave some for the boss, huh?”

  “Sure, boss,” Charley said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Linda Riggs didn’t understand it. The old man seemed to have more stamina than Barney or Hudson ever did. He had her on all fours now, and was taking her from behind, rutting and snorting like a bull. It seemed to go on forever, and then finally he bellowed and emptied his seed into her. He flopped down on the bed next to her, trying to catch his breath. Her plan to fuck him into a heart attack didn’t seem to be working, although he was pretty red in the face.

  She turned over, cleaned herself with the edge of the sheet, then stood up, holding a shirt between her legs.

  “When are we gonna rescue Barney, Pa?” she asked.

  “I told you,” he said, breathlessly, “we gotta wait for the right time.”

  “What about the Hudson hands?” she asked. “Sooner or later they’re gonna try to kill ’im.”

  “Not until after the trial.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been talkin’ to somebody.”

  “Who?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Don’t you worry, girl. You just go and see about supper. You sure help a man build up an appetite.”

  She decided to cook him a feast. Maybe she could get him to choke to death.

  The hands were just sitting around in the barn at the Hudson spread. Their boss had lived alone, and now that he was dead they had no idea what was going to happen to their jobs.

  “He got any relatives, maybe back East?” one of them asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  They all looked at Sam Turner.

  “Sam, you’re the foreman,” somebody said.

  “That’s right, foreman,” Sam said. “That didn’t mean me and the boss was friends, because we wasn’t. So I don’t have no idea who owns the ranch now, and I don’t know what’s gonna happen to our jobs.”

  “Maybe I can help?”

  They all looked up at the man who had just entered the barn.

  “What’s on your mind, Shaunessy?” Sam Turner asked.

  The foreman of the Grand Central Mine shrugged and said, “Just thought I might be able to help.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The next morning jury selections began. The public was allowed to attend, for the jury would be culled from their numbers.

  At the door Fred Dodge and Bob Hatch collected guns from people who entered. A board had been erected with nails hammered into it, and each gun belt or gun was hung on a nail that had a number beneath it. The gun’s owner was given a slip of paper with a corresponding number. They could collect their weapon on the way out.

  Dodge and Hatch were wearing their guns, so they’d be able to enforce the rule.

  Clint sat in a corner of the courtroom. Dodge convinced Hatch to let him keep his gun, in case they needed his help.

  When asked for his gun one man pointed at Clint and asked, “Why does he get to keep his? He ain’t wearin’ no badge.”

  “That’s Clint Adams, the Gunsmith,” Fred Dodge said. “You wanna go and ask him for his gun?”

  The man scowled, handed over his gun and sat down.

  Once the courtroom was full Dodge took up a position in front of all the guns, stood with his hands clasped in front of him.

  D.A. Mark A. Smith got to his feet when the bailiff shouted, “All rise. Court is in session, the Honorable Judge Webster Street presiding.”

  Judge Street, his thirtieth year on the bench, entered and sat in his chair behind the bench. He looked around, banged his gavel unnecessarily. It was a habit with him. Ever since his first day on the bench, he loved banging his gavel.

  Clint watched with interest as the lawyers began interviewing potential jurors. Somehow, Bannock Riggs had gotten a very experienced lawyer to represent Barney. Dodge told him that the Riggs family had been in court so often they knew the system, and ol’ Bannock knew how to use it.

  They interviewed men young and old, mostly ones who lived in or around town. Halfway through the day they had eight of their twelve. The proceedings looked to be boring Judge Webster Street, who several times seemed to be dozing.

  When they broke for lunch, Dodge and Hatch had to return guns to men, then collect them again after lunch. However, it wasn’t as time consuming after because many of the attendees from the morning session did not return.

  Jury selection went into a second day, pretty much a repeat of the first, but the lawyers were working quickly and efficiently and by the end of day two they had their twelve jurors, and two alternates.

  Fred Dodge was named as Guard for the Person of the Court. This meant he had to be with the jury wherever they went. He’d have to take them to lunch, make sure they didn’t talk to anyone, and then take them to the hotel after the days in court, once again making sure they discussed the case with no one.

  But that wouldn’t happen until the trial started, and that wasn’t scheduled until the following week.

  After the jury was selected Clint found himself in the Crystal Palace having a beer with Fred Dodge and Charley Smith. Hatch was in his office, keeping an eye on Barney Riggs.

  “Are we more trusting of Hatch, all of a sudden?” Clint asked, looking at the other two men.

  “With the jury picked and the trial date set I don’t think Bob is gonna do anythin’ that would bring attention to him,” Dodge said. “I mean, if he had any intentions of doin’ . . . somethin’.”

  Clint shrugged, sipped his beer.

  “Clint, I’d like to ask you to help Charley collect the guns when the trial starts,” Dodge said, then.

  “Sure, but don’t you have to clear that with Sheriff Hatch?” Clint asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Dodge said. “He’ll go along with it.”

  “I got rounds,” Charley said, putting his empty mug down. “See you boys, later.”

  “If I don’t see you, Charley,” Clint said, “I’ll meet you in front of the courthouse in the morning.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Charley left.

  “I don’t get it, Fred,” Clint said. “Why don’t you just run for sheriff next election?”

  “You know why, Clint,” Dodge said. “I wouldn’t be able to give the job the time it deserves.”

  “You’d do a better job than Hatch is doing, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah . . . but I could be called away at any time.”

  “Have good deputies,” Clint said. “Men you could trust while you’re away.”

  “You?”

  “No, not me,” Clint said, “but Charley’s a good man.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “I’m sure there are a few others.”

  “If Ike Roberts and Bill Daniels were here they’d be useful.”

  “Are they coming back?”

/>   “Maybe, but not in time for this.”

  “Well, give it some thought,” Clint said. “Cochise County would benefit from having you as its sheriff.”

  “There’s no guarantee I’d even win an election,” Dodge said.

  “I think you’d win.”

  Dodge rubbed his face with both hands.

  “You want another beer?” Clint asked.

  “Sure.”

  He got up to walk to the bar, stopped when he saw five men standing just inside the batwing doors. They were all armed, and looking at him—or Dodge—or both.

  “Fred.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Isn’t this gentleman’s name Shaunessy?”

  Dodge looked up, frowned, and stood next to Clint.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “I remember,” Clint said. “Grand Central Mine, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Those Grand Central men with him?”

  “Nope,” Dodge said, “those are Hudson outfit boys.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess it’s about time.”

  “Five against two,” Dodge said. “Whataya think of those odds?”

  “I think we’ve got them right where we want them.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “You want somethin’, Shaunessy?” Dodge asked.

  It grew quiet in the saloon.

  “Yeah, I been wantin’ somethin’ for three years, Dodge,” the miner said, “ever since you bad-mouthed me over hanging John Heath.”

  “You deserved bad-mouthing, Shaunessy,” Clint said. “You broke the law and murdered a man.”

  “I hung a murderer,” Shaunessy said. “That ain’t breakin’ the law.”

  “It sure is,” Dodge said. “What about you boys? Why are you standin’ with this man over a three-year-old beef? I got no argument with you.”

  “We want Barney Riggs,” one man said. “He’s in your jail.”

  “What’s one got to do with the other?” Dodge asked. “Did this man talk you into backin’ his play? Where’s your foreman? Where’s Sam Turner?”

  “Turner wouldn’t stand with us,” another man said. “He’s turned yella.”

  “Sam Turner’s no coward,” Dodge said. “He just picks his battles, and this ain’t his. It ain’t yours, neither. Shaunessy, tell these men to go home.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ without your hide, Dodge.”

  “Fine,” Dodge said. “Face me man-to-man. Why involve them?”

  “Sure, you got Adams backin’ your play, I’m supposed to stand alone?”

  “Adams won’t take a hand,” Dodge promised. “Just you and me.”

  Shaunessy licked his lips. Clint could see the hesitation in his eyes, but the men standing behind him couldn’t see it.

  “I won’t make a move, Shaunessy,” Clint promised.

  “I ain’t no gunman.”

  “No guns,” Dodge said. “Just you and me.”

  “Go on, Shaunessy,” one of the Hudson men said, “take ’im. Then we’ll go and break Riggs out and hang him.”

  “Nobody’s hangin’ anybody,” Clint said. “There’s a trial going on. Leave it to the law, boys.”

  “That was our boss Riggs killed,” another said.

  “You better talk it over with your foreman, then,” Clint said. “This man doesn’t care about you or your dead boss. He’s got his own axe to grind, and he’s trying to get you to do it for him.”

  “Come on, John,” Dodge said. “Drop your gun belt and face me.”

  “Yeah, come on, Shaunessy,” one of the hands shouted. “Show ’im.”

  “You boys, you draw and take ’em,” Shaunessy said. “Take ’em both.”

  The four men hesitated, then one said, “Well, if’n you ain’t a gunman, Shaunessy, we sure as hell ain’t.”

  “And that there’s the Gunsmith,” another said.

  “See, boys?” Clint asked. “Who’s yella now?”

  “Drop your gun belt, John, or turn and walk out,” Dodge said. “Them’s your choices.”

  Shaunessy licked his lips again, his eyes flicked back and forth between Dodge and Clint, his hands closed into fists.

  “Damn you!” he snapped, then turned and pushed through the four men who were backing him.

  “You boys want to push this any further?” Clint asked the remaining men.

  Now it was their turn to lick their lips, and then they turned together and walked out.

  “Been waitin’ three years for Shaunessy to make his move,” Dodge said, as he and Clint sat back down and business in the saloon resumed.

  “Kind of disappointing, wasn’t it?” Clint asked.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The first day of the trial the room was packed. Clint and Charley Smith collected all the guns, but they were too heavy to hang on the wall, so they just had to pile them in a corner. When it came time for men to get their guns back they could just look for themselves.

  The Case of the Territory of Arizona vs. Barney Riggs got under way.

  Clint wasn’t very interested in what both sides had to say. His only interest was in the outcome. Men arguing in court had never held much fascination for him. Particularly when they argued for hours and hours and nothing seemed to get done.

  He could barely stay awake as the arguments went on for two days. On the third day he decided to walk the jury over to the Can Can restaurant with Dodge, where they had set up a table for sixteen—the jurors, Dodge, and room for one more lawman—or whoever.

  Today the “whoever” was Clint Adams.

  Dodge and Clint walked the jury to the Can Can in a straight line. At one point, as the center of the line of jurors was passing the entrance to the O.K. Corral—owned by a man named John Montgomery—shots rang out.

  The jurors scattered looking for cover. Clint and Dodge drew their guns and sought out the shooters. They saw them standing just inside the corral.

  Dodge was at the head of the jury, Clint at the back end. They each collected their men and got them under cover, then joined one another across the street from the corral.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Dodge asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Clint recognized Bannock Riggs. There was another man with him he did not know.

  “See ’em?” Dodge asked.

  “Yeah, Bannock and another man.”

  “I don’t know the other one,” Dodge said. “Listen, Bannock’s no gunman, but the other one—”

  “I’ll take him, you take the old man. He was probably shooting at you, anyway.”

  “Right.”

  “Talk to him.”

  Dodge nodded, then shouted, “Bannock. This ain’t the way, old man.”

  No answer.

  “Come on, Bannock. You’re not gonna get Barney off this way.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ to get him off,” Bannock answered, “just away.”

  “Well, that ain’t gonna happen, either,” Dodge said, “so you and your friend might as well come out and drop your guns.”

  “I want my boy, Dodge,” Bannock said. “You’re gonna have to kill me or give ’im to me.”

  “You’re makin’ a big mistake, old man.”

  “You’re probably right,” Bannock said, surprising both Dodge and Clint with the admission, “but I can’t figure out no other way.”

  “Let nature take its course,” Dodge suggested. “Let the trial go on.”

  “They’ll hang ’im!”

  “You don’t know that for sure. If you give up, though, you’ll be alive to see what happens. If you die here, then he might hang, anyway.”

  They were greeted with silence. Clint could still see the two men inside the corral.

  “I’ve got a shot,” he told Dodge.

  “Wait,” Dodge said. “I may still be able to talk him out.”

  “Yeah, but what about the other one?”

  “He’ll go along with Bannock,” Dodge said, holstering his gun. “Give me a chance.”

&nbs
p; “If either one of them even looks at you funny, I’m firing.”

  Dodge made a wait gesture with his hands and stood up. He put his hands in the air. “Keep the jurors under cover.”

  He stepped out into the open.

  “Bannock, I just wanna talk.”

  Clint heard the sound of a hammer cocking. He didn’t know if it was Bannock Riggs’s gun or the other one, but he could see enough of each man to have a shot.

  “Take it easy,” Dodge said. “This ain’t the way. Your boy wouldn’t want this.”

  Bannock laughed.

  “My boy wouldn’t care one way or the other, Dodge,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t much care, neither, but he’s my boy. I’m supposed to do somethin’.”

  “Sure you are, Bannock, but not get yourself killed,” Dodge said. “Holster your guns. Clint Adams has got you both in his sights.”

  Both men moved, then, but Clint felt he still had a shot.

  “Come on, Bannock,” Dodge said. “I’ve got some hungry jurors here. What’s it gonna be?”

  “Goddamn, old man!” the other man said. He stepped out and took aim at Dodge, impatient with Bannock. Clint shot him down with one bullet to the heart. He fell into the dirt, wafting a cloud of dust right next to Bannock Riggs.

  The old man tossed his gun out into the street.

  With Bannock arrested and placed in a cell, Dodge came back to the Can Can, where Clint was sitting with the jurors.

  “You took a hell of a chance, Fred,” Clint said, as the man sat down next to him.

  “Not really,” Dodge said. “I knew two things.”

  “What two things?”

  “I knew Bannock wouldn’t shoot me,” Dodge said. “The old man’s not a killer.”

  “And the second thing?”

  Dodge grinned.

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me get killed out there like a fool, with my hands up.”

  FORTY

  Bannock did have a plan.

  It had been his intention to send the jury scattering, thereby causing a mistrial. Then he was going to have his lawyer file for a change of venue. Now it was up to the judge to decide if the jury had been tampered with. They had been instructed not to talk to anyone—including one another—about the case. They had not discussed the case, but everyone knew that after being shot at, they were thinking about it.