Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  “Nothing works better, and it’s a long sight cheaper than those fancy ones they’ve come along with lately.”

  Having no other choice, Sam drank the two large glasses offered. Long years of abstinence combined with his empty stomach and recent loss of blood caused the liquor to have an immediate and most stunning effect. The room was spinning as he lay down, and he prayed that the pain would be numbed as effectively as his sense of equilibrium.

  This only distracted Sam momentarily from his initial excitement over the doctor’s admission that he had been in Stoner’s Crossing at the time of Leonard Stoner’s murder. This was the best thing to happen to Sam all day, especially since the doctor was the first person to respond in a less than hostile fashion.

  “As a doctor,” Sam said as Barrows cleansed the wound by pouring whiskey into it, “you must have treated Leonard Stoner.” Sam’s words came out slow and labored, punctuated by several winces as the whiskey stung his wound. His tongue felt thick and unwieldy.

  “Can’t treat a dead man,” Barrows replied. “But I did tend the body.” Barrows picked up a long, pointed instrument and began probing into Sam’s wound.

  The pain exploded through Sam’s entire back and down his arm, but he was determined to continue this promising conversation.

  “They said it was a…gun—I mean, a…a Colt that killed Leonard. Is that true?” Sam was having great difficulty forming a coherent thought.

  “True enough. But you’ll find that in the official court records.”

  “No records…no one knows where…. they are.” Sam grunted as the probe dug deeper.

  “That so?”

  “Perhaps…you…can tell…” For a moment Sam forgot what he was going to ask, and only his inner determination forced him to focus. “…From your…medical findings…how…?” With each passing moment Sam felt his head become lighter and lighter as his vision grew darker and darker.

  “He wasn’t lucky like you, Killion,” said the doctor almost too buoyantly. “Young Leonard took his bullet right in the heart. That’s where I found it at the autopsy, lodged in the heart. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I mean, considering everything.”

  “Did…did…it enter from the front or back…?” But Sam did not hear the answer, if there was an answer, to that most important question.

  Faintly, as if from a long distance away, he heard, “There it is! I knew I’d find that bugger.”

  Then Sam blacked out.

  He awoke no more than half an hour later according to the clock on Barrows’ mantel. Sam was still lying on his stomach and the doctor was still working on him, putting a bandage on.

  “There you go,” said Barrows, “all fixed up. You can stay here for a couple of hours, unless you feel up to going back to where you are staying.”

  Sam rolled over. “Just give me a hand and I’ll see.” With the doctor’s help he got into a sitting position. The room spun for only a few minutes. When he felt steady, he said, “How much do I owe you?”

  “Well, seeing as how you are new in town and I’ve heard you are also a fellow man of the cloth, I’ll give you a discount.” He rubbed his unkempt chin. “Fifteen dollars ought to do it.”

  Even as drugged and tired as he was, Sam’s eyebrows shot up at the doctor’s so-called discount.

  Barrows added, “If you want to stay here for the night, I’ll only charge you another dollar.”

  “Thanks,” said Sam, “but I think I can make it back to the hotel.” Sam scooted off the table and found that, though his knees were weak, he could stand on his own. He slipped his shirt on, and Barrows placed a sling around Sam’s arm. Then he paid the doctor and started for the door. But before he reached for the doorknob, he paused as an unfinished thought, which had been nagging at him since the surgery, finally clarified in his mind. He turned back to Barrows. “I didn’t hear you too clearly before, Dr. Barrows, but did you say that bullet that killed Leonard Stoner came from the front?”

  “I don’t believe I said, either way.” Barrows was washing his hands in a basin. He stopped and leveled a direct gaze at Sam. “I just can’t remember that far back.”

  Something in the man’s steady look indicated that he remembered all too well. Like everyone else in town, he wasn’t about to reveal any information to the husband of the woman who murdered Caleb Stoner’s son.

  “I will give you a bit of friendly advice, though,” said the doctor, wiping his hands on a none-too-clean cloth. “Caleb Stoner is going to do everything he can to see that your wife hangs for what she did. Your best hope is to get a good lawyer.”

  Sam left, more discouraged than he had been in a long time. He had been so hopeful—first about that trail, then about the doctor who had seemed a lot more talkative than the other townsfolk. Maybe if he hadn’t passed out and had been able to pursue his questioning…

  Well, he would never know what might have happened then.

  To compound this failure, it looked as if he would never get close to Caleb Stoner. This last encounter made it fairly certain that next time, Stoner’s boys would not miss. Stoner’s message was clear: Give up, or you are a dead man.

  Sam was not one to give up easily, but he simply had no other tricks up his sleeve.

  Returning to the hotel, he sent the manager’s son to the jail with a message for Deborah. He desperately wanted to see her himself, but he knew that in his present state he would only cause her unnecessary anxiety. It took all his remaining strength to get up to his room to his bed. He did remember to pray but fell asleep long before he finished.

  14

  Sam slept late the next morning. He woke with such a dismayed start that it sent pain coursing all through his body. The bright, hot sunlight streaming into his room told him just how late it was. He jumped out of bed—at least, he had intended on jumping, but it was more of a lunge and a stumble. He skipped breakfast, pausing only long enough to gulp a cup of coffee before going to visit Deborah.

  If he had hoped to spare her needless concern by waiting until morning to see her, he was totally unsuccessful.

  “Sam! What happened to you?” she exclaimed the moment the sheriff let him into her cell.

  Not only the presence of his sling, but also his pale face was enough to arouse Deborah’s worst fears. There was nothing else for Sam to do but tell her everything that had occurred.

  “I don’t want you going back there again, Sam.”

  “I reckon I’d be downright foolish to try it again.”

  “Caleb will never budge in this matter. He’ll die before he’d do anything to help me.”

  “It’s almost as if…” Sam began, but the idea was so farfetched that he could hardly voice it.

  “As if what?”

  “Well, I was thinking that maybe he don’t want the truth to come out because he’s protecting himself, or someone close to him. Maybe he killed Leonard, or even his young son, what was his name…? Laban, wasn’t it?”

  “Caleb could never have killed Leonard unless it was some kind of freak accident.” Deborah shook her head at the incredible notion. “As for Laban, I have thought of him, but…I just don’t know. Regardless, even if he did, there is no way we can prove it with Caleb obstructing our every move.”

  “The answers are on that ranch, Deborah—”

  “Promise me you won’t go back there, Sam. I couldn’t bear any of this if something were to happen to you.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Deborah. Just remember that God helps us to bear all things.”

  Deborah opened her mouth to protest his adept sidestepping of her plea. Instead, she said nothing and just held him close.

  They were quiet for several minutes; then Sam said earnestly, “I ain’t gonna do nothing foolhardy, Deborah. But I feel that if we could just get to Caleb…if we could just talk to him, get some response from him, we’d be able to get to the bottom of all of this.”

  Deborah nodded. There were so many ifs but nothing solid. It sometimes seemed as if they were f
ighting shadows.

  ****

  Two days later, they did get a response from Caleb, but it wasn’t quite what Sam would have wished for. He was having lunch with Deborah in her cell when the sheriff entered the back room where the jail’s two cells were located. He was holding a piece of paper and appeared none too pleased to be the one to disclose its contents.

  “I got a court order here,” he said.

  “Is the circuit judge in town now?” asked Sam. He had been anxious to speak to a judge.

  “Nope. Someone rode all the way to Austin to get this,” answered the sheriff. “Anyways, this says that you, Mrs. Killion, are to be transferred to the county prison.”

  Sam jumped to his feet in protest. “What! You can’t do that. Why, it’s—it’s illegal! My wife has rights—”

  “It’s perfectly legal,” said the sheriff, “especially if there is some reason to believe this jail facility ain’t secure enough for the prisoner.”

  “Secure! I can’t believe—”

  “Sam,” put in Deborah, laying a calming hand on her husband’s arm, “I think this is just another of Caleb’s obstacles.” To the sheriff she added, “It was Caleb who instigated the court order?”

  “I reckon that ain’t no secret. He was worried about the way your husband was poking his nose around, and he’d heard about his exploits as a Texas Ranger. He also was worried about other associates who have helped you in the past. The authorities in Austin thought his request was valid. And they also believed that because of your unpopularity in his town that it’d be for your own good, your safety, that is, to be removed.”

  “When will this happen?” Deborah asked calmly.

  “Soon as they can send someone up here for you. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “All right,” said Deborah. “Can my husband and I have a few more moments alone?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  The sheriff exited and Deborah turned back to Sam. “Come on, Sam, let’s sit down and discuss this.”

  Sam’s jaw twitched with anger, but he took a breath and made a conscious effort to let go of it. He sat back on the bunk.

  Deborah continued. “It’s not so bad, really. That sheriff is right, in a way. I mean, in that there is no telling what Caleb might do to me. He could easily incite this town to a lynching. That sheriff isn’t exactly hostile to me, but like everyone else around here, I doubt he’d stand up to Caleb.” She paused for a moment. “By the way, I haven’t heard from Pollard lately. Is he still around?”

  “I ain’t seen him, but I heard he’s spending a lot of time at the saloon and cantina. I don’t think it was enough for him just to arrest you; he’s bent on seeing this all the way through to the…end.” Sam faltered on the word end, and his and Deborah’s eyes met.

  A brief instant of fear tried to intrude upon Deborah’s calm, but she shook it away. This was no time to fall apart. She had God, she had Sam, and she still had an abundance of hope. When she lifted her eyes again toward Sam, they reflected a great deal of determination.

  “Sam, I was thinking about what Dr. Barrows told you about getting a lawyer. Maybe it’s time we did that.”

  “I want to see you cleared of this thing.” Sam was agitated, frustrated, and angry, but he was doing his best to stay calm. “Yet, if it takes getting some fancy lawyer to wrangle around the law a little to get you off, then that’s what we’ll do. We gotta find the real killer, but you’re right, the first thing to do is get you out from under this conviction. No one’s gonna put a rope around your neck or keep you in prison.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want that either!” Deborah’s hand went unconsciously to her neck. Even if the state had never “legally” hanged a woman, Caleb might take the law into his own hands. He had almost gotten away with that nineteen years ago.

  Sam took her in his arms and tenderly kissed her lovely, precious neck. She was more important to him than his own life, and he was quite willing to sacrifice himself to save her. The problem was that he was practical-minded enough to realize that willingness just might not be enough. In his lowest moments—and he was almost there now—he had pictured himself standing by a gallows watching her execution, unable to ride in, like Griff McCulloch, guns ablaze, to rescue her. He wondered often how far he would let her friends go to protect her, how far he would go to save her. Would he throw all his Christian principles out? Would he lie, steal, kill? He had prayed he’d not be tested to this point; but if he was, he asked that God would fortify him where he was weak. It was all he could do.

  “Deborah,” he said quietly, as if this resolve was one of great consequence, “I’ll go to Austin when they take you, and I’ll find a lawyer.”

  He was still discouraged when he left the jail that day. The idea of his Deborah sitting in a county prison was as demoralizing as anything that had yet occurred. He had been to such prisons on business as a Ranger, and he knew what kind of despicable pits they were. Not only were there filth and disease, but there were also other prisoners, many of the worst kind, even among the women.

  Such knowledge plagued his thoughts as he sent his first telegram back home to inform the children of their mother’s status. He would have preferred to have said nothing since he had no good news to report, but he knew that to Deborah’s anxious loved ones silence was as cruel as bad news.

  15

  Caleb Stoner’s influence in the state capital was one thing Sam had not taken into account. He had tried to believe that once away from the center of Caleb’s power in Stoner’s Crossing, he’d have no difficulty in obtaining justice for Deborah. That, however, was not to be. Stoner had apparently preceded Sam to Austin and, anticipating Sam’s course of action, had set several extremely disheartening obstacles in place.

  Sam had reluctantly left Deborah at the county prison some thirty miles south of Stoner’s Crossing and about fifty miles west of Austin. They both knew he could do her more good in the capital than sitting around the county seat awaiting each day’s visiting hours.

  Upon arriving in Austin, Sam discovered Stoner was going to make it difficult, if not impossible, for him to do Deborah any good at all. First, Sam learned Stoner was a close friend of the governor, so any immediate hope of intercession from that quarter was well dampened. Then there was the problem with judges. Even the most sympathetic men were wary of a case that was fast becoming infamous and easily a political anathema. One judge suggested Sam get a good attorney. That, however, was not easy advice to follow.

  The reputable attorneys, mindful of their careers and future standing in the state hierarchy, would not touch a case that could possibly place them at odds with the governor himself. One man was eager to defend Deborah, but Sam didn’t like the look or sound of him. He seemed more interested in the novelty of defending a woman accused of murder, and cared nothing about her innocence. He said Deborah’s best bet, if they were about to file for an appeal, was to plead guilty by reason of insanity and throw herself upon the mercy of the court. He took a particular relish in the words “throw herself.”

  There didn’t seem to be a lawyer in town who really believed in Deborah’s innocence. Either they had been brainwashed by Caleb, or they believed she killed Leonard by reason of self-defense. Sam thought he’d be willing to accept that plea if it saved Deborah, but he knew that, at least for Carolyn’s sake, Deborah desired her innocence to be proven beyond all doubt.

  So after several weary days of interviewing lawyers, Sam returned one day to his hotel for dinner as discouraged as ever. While waiting for his meal he idly picked up a newspaper left behind by the previous occupant of his table. The front page was dominated by the results of the Presidential Nominating Conventions in which Grover Cleveland and James G. Blaine had become the nominees of their respective parties. Another article reported on problems in Africa as various nations battled for control of that continent. Sam realized how out of touch he was lately with world events. But when he felt as if his own world was collapsing, it was all he could do
to focus on other events.

  He turned the pages absently while he waited for his meal, catching a key word or two here and there, not really comprehending most of what passed before his eyes. The story that finally did jump out at him was small and unpretentious, buried on the fifth page. The word Attorney caught his attention, and when he paused and backtracked, it said Famous Philadelphia Attorney Announces Retirement. The article went on to tell about the life and accomplishments of the man who not only had had a successful private practice for thirty years, but had also served two terms as a U.S. Senator immediately following the Civil War, and had once been considered for the presidency. After returning to private practice a few years ago, he had again made headlines by defending a man accused of the slaying of three women. This extremely unpopular move on his part had garnered much criticism for him until he proved beyond all doubt the man’s innocence by tracking down the true killer.

  Sam had heard of Jonathan Barnum and vaguely recalled reading in Texas newspapers accounts of that Philadelphia trial. But he knew little of the man himself. The article said he was a tenacious fighter who enjoyed defending the underdog and espousing seemingly lost causes.

  Sam immediately thought of Deborah’s cause. He did not want to believe it was a lost cause, but even he had to admit it was becoming successively more difficult.

  He scanned the article one more time to see if there was an address for the attorney, but there was none. Forgetting all about his dinner, Sam folded up the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and hurried from the hotel, where he caught a cab and instructed the driver to take him to the offices of the Austin Globe.

  For the first time that week, he felt a surge of hope. On the surface it might appear a harebrained idea. What famous eastern attorney would want to get involved with some obscure residents of Texas, especially considering that the man had just begun a well-earned retirement? Even if by some miracle—and Sam had by no means given up on miracles!—the man sympathized with Deborah’s plight, how could they expect an elderly gentleman to make an arduous trip west to handle the case? It seemed unlikely, even impossible.